


Red

by LananiA3O



Series: Batman: Arkham Compendium [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Attempted Murder, Drug Abuse, Gen, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jason-Centric, Mutilation, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Nudity, Original Character Death(s), Past Torture, Psychological Torture, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Torture, heartbreaking tearjerkers, heartwarming tearjerkers, heavy spoilers, references to past sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 104,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6620590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once a snake has shed its old skin, it will never be able to crawl back into it again. No damage done to a person ever fully heals. From the Asylum to All Hallow’s Eve, Jason Todd had learned this lesson the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Robin

**Author's Note:**

> GLOBAL DISCLAIMERS:  
> This story contains major spoilers for Batman: Arkham Knight. For the purpose of this story only the Batman Arkham games are considered canon, although some inspiration has been drawn from other Batman media. Please note that this story gets very, very dark at many points (as evidenced by the tags).  
> I do not own the Batman Arkham series or any of its characters. This is a non-profit only work by a fan, for fans.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enraged by a particularly vicious crime scene at a kindergarden, Jason has disabled his trackers and set out to kill Joker. Now, captured by the Clown Prince of Crime instead, it is up to Robin to fix his mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: graphic violence, physical and psychological torture, swearing  
> Side notes: based on the BAK City Story ‘The Fall’ and the Arkham Knight’s second audio tape.

„And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty back together again!”

_Like nails on a chalkboard._

When he got free, the first thing he’d do would be to smash the Clown’s face in. Break out every single one of his teeth until “Humpty Dumpty” became “umby umby”. _And then some._

 _Cut it out, Jason._ That was Robin speaking, thinking really, and Robin, as usual, was right. Now was not the time for bravado. He had tried that already.

The memories were young and fresh in Jason’s mind. The feeling as two of his teeth had detached from their gums and nearly rolled down his throat before he spit them out into the dirt had been awful. The piercing pain that had shot through his leg as the crowbar had shattered his ankle had been even worse. He had suffered broken bones before of course. It was an inevitable part of being a masked vigilante in this hellhole called Gotham. Even before that, it had been an inevitable part of being a street rat at the bottom of the food chain. He had suffered worse before. He would be fine.

His first impulse after finding himself lamed had been to snatch the crowbar from Joker with his hands. Tricky, but not impossible, and Jason would have been damned if he would have gone down without a fight. What he had not known – not noticed – was Harley coming in from the back with her stupid metal baseball bat. The bat had hit his arm from the left, the crowbar from the right. Two fractures for the price of one. He wasn’t sure whose laughter had sounded more demented – Harley’s or Joker’s.

 _Tracker, NOW_ , he remembered Robin screaming in his head, but by then it was too late. Joker had already snatched his good arm with the hook of the crowbar and wrenched it backwards so forcefully it nearly popped Jason’s shoulder joint. One pair of handcuffs later, whatever chance he might have had at rectifying his fatal mistake of disabling all communication and tracking devices on him was gone.

Someone had slipped a black, plastic trash bag over his head then, before hoisting him to his feet. Even staggering from the sudden change in position with only one foot to support his two hundred pounds of muscle, Jason had tried to wrench himself free of the hands that held him tightly, hands too strong to be Joker’s or Harley’s. One of Joker’s goons maybe? What would it matter, anyway…

 _Focus, Robin. Plan B. Conserve, observe and stall_.

He remembered the day that Bruce had taught him all about the capture emergency procedures or, as Dick liked to call it, “the part where he saves your ass before lapsing into brooding silence and disappointed stares”. In case of capture, conserve your energy. Priority number one. Avoid any more additional damage. _Great job I did at that_ , Jason thought sourly. Wrenched behind his back, his broken arm felt even worse than before and he was pretty sure the moment he’d set his right foot on the ground, he’d be blind with pain.

 _Observe your surroundings._ Priority number two. Not that he wasn’t blind anyway. He strained to see anything through the blackness that was the stupid trash bag, but all he could make out were faint lights here and there. In between the plastic and his own heavy breaths – plastic bags are choking hazards after all – he could not hear much either. Except for Joker’s voice. That smug, grating, snake-in-the-grass sound of Joker’s endless singing.

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall…”

Harley was giggling like the mad woman she was to his left. If mystery man number three had anything to say, he was smart enough not to interrupt his boss’ little parade. His sense of smell and taste were also shot. Aside from his own sweat and blood, and the cheap smell of fresh plastic of course. That left him with only two senses: touch and proprioception. The air was still cold and clammy around him, but the rain had stopped. _So we’re inside now._ The floor beneath his foot was hard and smooth and resounded under each of his little steps, little jumps really, as he tried to avoid putting pressure on his right foot while being dragged along. Every so often, he could feel the distinctive indention of a little groove underneath his toes. _Tiles_. It was hardly surprising. He had accompanied Batman to the Asylum before. The entire place was a tiler’s wet dream. Even the damn stairs – they had gone down two of those already and each time maintaining his balance on only one leg had been an act of sheer force of will – were tiled _._ He had not only counted the stairs though. _Twenty-two steps ahead, right turn, fifteen steps, left turn, twenty steps on stairs, left turn again, forty-five steps ahead, two right turns, fourteen steps, another right turn, another set of twenty stairs_. _Left turn. Six steps._ One of the first tricks Dick had ever taught him in an attempt of bonding with his new younger brother was to know the length of his own body and its movements. How many inches to your arm, your foot, your steps, your jumps. He had never thought about counting the length of a hop, but by his own reckoning, they had crossed a distance of at least forty to fifty meters, even though the suffocating heat caused by his own exhales under the plastic bag made it feel like much, much more. If he ever got free of his restraints, he would need to remember every single inch of it.

They stopped after another twenty steps. Loud thuds and screeches filled his ear. Someone was moving something, scraping against the floor. A heavy click and noisy creak later they were descending once more. _Trap door. Brilliant_. More steps followed, crude steps, so much more uneven and not even tiled. _We’re underground now. Underground in some hidden passageway._ The steps seemed to go on forever. He counted thirty, forty-

“Oops.”

He lost his balance the instant the crowbar hooked around his good ankle. Whoever had been holding him steady before had changed their mind, letting him tumble down the remaining stairway in agony as nearly every other step hit his broken arm. Or his head for that matter. Shielding himself with his arms was not an option and so Jason brought his chin as close to his chest as he could and hoped that he would not break his neck on the way down. Then humpty dumpty would really be broken beyond repair. When he finally came to rest against the floor on his back, he could hear the sounds of two ascending steps – one significantly lighter than the other and almost prancing – and one other set of steps descending. He wouldn’t have to guess who it was.

“You know, if you wanted to snap my neck, there are easier ways to do it.”

He waited for the Clown’s answer, but it never came. Only his footsteps continued, circling around Jason like a vulture waiting for a downed animal to finally die. Jason was not going to give him that satisfaction.

_Time for priority number 3. Stall._

“You know you’re only prolonging the inevitable right?” Jason continued. “He’s got ways to track me. He’s already on his way here.” Technically, both were true. Practically, Jason was less than sure. He had been stupid enough to go dark. Still, Jason was nothing if not punctual. By now, it was surely past rendezvous time and while Jason had a habit of disappearing from the manor every now and then, if he promised to be somewhere sometime, he was always there. On time. So surely his physical and communicational absence had been noted already. Surely Batman had already gone to the kindergarten, found the trail that Jason had followed and was on his way onto Arkham Peninsula as he was speaking. After all, Joker’s trail had been less than subtle.

“I’m going to enjoy watching him beat the shit out of you. Last time someone broke my arm, he gave the guy a matching set of two AND put him on a soup only diet.” That memory brought a smile to Jason’s lips. Seeing oh-so-stoic Bruce go into full-out fury and smashing a thugs teeth in had been totally worth the sermon he had received afterwards. “And we’re in the right place, too. He won’t even need the Batmobile. Just gonna take you right upstairs and hand you over to the docs, watching you wriggle in your restraints while they pump you full of all kinds of funky drugs. Oh, it’s gonna be so much fun.”

If Joker was bothered by anything Jason was saying, he didn’t show it. Instead, Jason could practically feel him grinning, even if he could not see it. It didn’t matter. Batman would be here soon and then that smug smile would be turned upside down. “And the best thing is, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. That trail you left was sloppy as can be.” That much was true. A blind idiot cop fresh out of the academy could have followed it and Jason was way better than that. So was Bruce. He just had to hold on a little longer. Any minute now that trap door would burst open and mayhem would be unleashed upon this room.

 _And then I’ll finally be rid of this god-awful, suffocating plastic bag_ , Jason thought sourly. He would make sure to find whoever had put the damn thing over his head and choke them with it.

“Have to give you one thing for picking this location though: where better to go crazy than in a madhouse?” Joker was still pacing. Every once in a while, Jason could hear the tell-tale thud of him tapping the crowbar in his right onto the gloved palm of his left. “Hell, you’re already running in circles. Let me know when you start flapping your arms like a chicken. I’ll want a picture of that.” Still no reaction. This was starting to get slightly unnerving. The distinct lack of oxygen did not help. _You need to buy more time, Robin. Keep talking._ He had to find a topic that would take a while to exhaust while not getting riled up. _Agitation increases the heart rate increases breathing frequency increases waste of oxygen and humidity under this damn plastic bag. Talk about something factual, something boring._

“Hey, by the way, did anyone ever even tell you how Arkham first came to be?”

 _Yes!_ Arkham was a wonderful topic. Even when he had been a little boy stealing half-rotten sandwiches out of dirty trash cans in the Bowery Jason had been fascinated with Arkham Asylum. He had only ever seen it from a distance, across the black waters of Gotham Bay, but he had also heard tales of it. Wonderful, mysterious, scary and yet unimaginably fascinating tales. As a kid, he had always wondered what it would be like on the inside. When he was bored, he had sometimes imagined himself as a doctor in that place, going from patient to patient, crazy to crazy, uncovering all the intricacies and winding, twisting paths of the human psyche. Of course, back then he would not even have been able to spell Arkham right to save his life.

When he had first discovered the library in Wayne Manor, Jason’s first bigger research project had been Arkham. What exactly did it look like? Who had built it? When, why, what for? In what style? Gothic like most of Gotham? How many patients were there, how many doctors? Who had been committed and what for? How many people had actually been ‘cured’ or ‘rehabilitated’? Had anyone ever managed to break out? Who? When? How? The first time Bruce let Jason join him while bringing in a new patient – a serial killer whose MO had been to kidnap native American girls and then stage sick and twisted re-imaginings of old cowboy tales with them – he had barely been able to conceal his excitement and marvel under the strictly stoic and professional mask that Batman wanted Robin to be. But stoic had never been in Jason’s vocabulary and so he hadn’t been able to help himself as he had stopped in front of another patient’s room on their way out, taking in every detail of the heavy, barred doors, the armed guards, the patient card next to the door and, through the teeny tiny acrylic glass window, the patient himself. Once they were back in the Batmobile, Bruce had let him have it. Sermons, sermons, sermons. Bruce was good at those. In revenge, Jason had reprogrammed every single phone in Wayne manor, including Bruce’s cell, to play the asylum’s jingle whenever a new text or call arrived. Bruce and Alfred had not been amused. Dick and Barbara had laughed when he had told them. Lucius had immediately asked how he had managed to set it all up so smoothly right under Bruce’s nose.

Alfred had eventually forgiven him. Bruce had made him wait in the Batmobile every time they had come back to the Asylum ever since.

The memory brought a genuine smile to Jason’s face and even dulled the pain in his broken arm and leg for a bit. He hoped Joker could feel it just like he had felt the Clown’s grin.

“You see, it all started with Amadeus Arkham…”

***

“…and so it all comes back down to Arkham.” Jason finished, barely able to conceal the strain of his voice. How long had he been talking? He had given Joker every single detail – outside of the inner workings of the security systems, of course – that he could remember about Arkham, and he remembered a lot. He must have been talking for two, maybe three hours at least. And yet, the Clown was still silent. Part of him wished he would start singing the damn song again. Or talk. Or laugh. Or anything really. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought of himself as talking to a wall.

Except Joker was still there. Listening.

He could not see him, could not hear him, but he could feel him. Those green eyes were still watching, that red grin was still smiling. This was not like him. Joker was a classic attention whore. He loved to boast. He loved theatrics. Why the hell was he silent as a grave now?

_And where the hell are you, Batman?_

Robin had needed all of two minutes to find Joker’s trail. It had taken him less than an hour to get onto the peninsula using nothing but his feet and his grappling gun. So where the fuck was he? What was taking so long? Had Joker’s goons cleaned up the trail after Jason had taken the bait? Quite likely, but even so, Bruce was better than that. Jason knew that. _Where are you?_

_Don’t let him get to you, Robin. Keep talking._

Underneath the plastic, the air was getting hotter and thicker every second. His breath came in small wheezes now, as he tried to conserve as much oxygen as possible. If Joker had wanted to suffocate him, he would be dead by now. Instead, the bastard had left him just enough of an opening to keep him alive. Hot sweat formed along Jason’s hairline and trailed down his neck. Against the cold air outside of the bag it felt like ice water running along his skin. He tried to suppress the shivers that his muscles caused instinctively. Every minute that passed the bag seemed to become smaller, but he would be damned if he would let Joker see how much it affected him. He could break his body. He would not break his mind, nor his soul.

“You know who was the first guy I ever locked in here together with Batman?”

It was as good a topic as any.

***

His throat was on fire. His tongue was like a dry, over-sized sponge inside his mouth. In the middle of his head, Jason felt the sharp sensation of sudden pain, like a nail in his brain. The onset of dehydration. For the first time, the bag actually came in handy. It was hard to be dizzy when even your brain did not know where up and down, left and right, were. Also, the sting in his head made the burning of his arm and ankle seem slightly less horrible then before. Small blessings, but not very helpful.

How long had he been talking this time? An hour? Maybe two? He had to keep talking. Who knew what had happened? Maybe Batman had been on his way when some other lunatic had put himself in his way and hindered him from proceeding? Maybe Joker had left false trails, diversions? It didn’t matter. He would come. He would never abandon him. Bruce had promised him that. He was family. You don’t abandon family.

_Guess your ‘family’ doesn’t want another mouth to feed, do they? Or maybe you’re just not making enough money yet?_

The memory jumped into the forefront of his brain unbidden and unannounced, like a lion pouncing on its helpless prey, and sunk its teeth deep into his already battered mind and body. _Push it down, Robin. That was a long time ago. A different time. A different family. Bruce promised. He will never abandon you._

“You know… you’re being awfully quiet.”

Jason felt himself wince against his better judgment at the sound of his own voice. He had intended to say it in his normal cocky bravado, but what had escaped his lips was a sound so croaked and pained he could hardly believe that it had come from his tongue. His throat burned like coals with every word. Still, he needed to keep talking. He needed to stall for time and if he were to talk himself hoarse, then so be it. He had to keep Joker distracted. Until Bruce arrived.

_Only a little longer, Robin. Keep your act together._

“You know one-sided communication is the death of any relationship right?” He had planned to continue on immediately, but found his mind wiped blank in an instant. What was most frightening about this was that he had known exactly what he was going to say. He had had it all planned out. And now it was gone. Just like that. Poof.

_The dehydration, Robin. It’s the dehydration. And the lack of oxygen. You’ll be better as soon as you get out of here._

He had been talking about relationships. And communication. At least he thought he had. Things were starting to get a little blurry in his oxygen-starved brain. Where had he been planning to go from there? _Relationships. Talking. Problems. Therapy!_ “As a matter of fact, I just read an article in Neuroscience Monthly the other day.” Jason finally continued. He hoped he would be able to keep that line of thought together for as long as need be. “Said that lack of communication is the number one divorce reason in the States…”

***

“…guess you don’t care about that, huh…” _Why?_ Why the hell had he been so stupid as to turn off his trackers?!

His last words rolled off his tongue like a dying animal slumping to the ground in defeat. He was so tired. So exhausted. Why had he turned off his tracker? He hadn’t planned to make Joker suffer. He had only planned to kill him. Even if Batman had found him, even if Joker had not captured him… it would have been done by that time. Quick snap of the neck. Some bludgeoning with whatever was at hand. Heck, he had beaten to death a drunken thug trying to accost him with nothing but a loose brick when he had been thirteen. Joker would have been dead and if not, at least Jason would not be here.

As much as he hated Bruce’s stoic silence, he preferred it to this uneasy, looming quiet of dread.

He tried once more to find new words, but his mind came up blank. Well, not exactly.

There were still hundreds of things that he could have talked about. His mind, tranquilized by too much carbon dioxide as it was, was more than happy to provide him with a myriad of topics, each one less useful then the next:

Everything from before he became Robin. _None of Joker’s business. Too personal. Too identifying,_ Robin remarked.

 _And too painful_ , Jason added.

Alfred and Lucius. Barbara and Dick. Bruce _. None of Joker’s business. Too personal. Too identifying. Too harmful. Don’t even think about dragging them into this_ , Robin warned.

 _I wish they were here. I want to go home_ , Jason admitted.

His sketches. His designs _. None of Joker’s business. Too personal. Too valuable to hand over to this madman. We are NOT in the helping him business_ , Robin admonished.

 _A gun that disables guns, trackers and jammers_ , Jason mused. His fingers ached as his mind brought up the sketches. He could see them clear as day and just for a second he was back in Wayne Tower.

 _Long barrel. Enough room for three rounds in the chamber. Potentially four, if he tweaked it some more. Long distance vision scope. Could potentially even fit a less fancy version of cowl vision in there._ Lucius had been so proud of him when Jason had shown him the sketches. He had praised him for his innovation, congratulated him on the thoughtfulness of the design, encouraged him to refine it some more. And then he had told him everything that he had missed. _Too heavy yet, but WE can fix it. Too large for the utility belt; maybe WE can find a way to make it more compact. Not water-damage resistant, but if WE choose a different material…_ He had followed the litany of design flaws up with an assuring nod and a comforting pat on the back. It was still a very good idea and the sketches would have made every engineer’s mouth water. A good job from a talented young man, with lots of potential for greatness.

Bruce had given it one look, his face blank as always, then told Lucius to add it to the list of upcoming prototypes. Then he had grappled out of Wayne Tower into the night, leaving Jason behind with his shoulders slumped in disappointment. _Would it have killed him to say “Well done, Jason?”_

A chill ran down Jason’s spine. Now was the worst time he needed memories like that. What he needed was something to talk about. Something trivial. Something useless. Something nobody would mind having splattered all over the Asylum’s walls.

 _Like the useless Robin who got himself captured by the homicidal maniac with the perma-grin,_ the darker, unforgivingly sarcastic regions of his mind suggested. Forcing the renewed feeling of guilt and shame back down, Jason took one last exasperated breath. This was going nowhere. Whatever his mind would come up with now, it would not be good. The best thing he could do now was to square his shoulders, close his eyes and accept whatever came his way with as much endurance and toughness as he could muster. He had done it before, oh so many times. He was used to taking pain. Whatever Joker had in store for him, it would be better than digging himself deeper into this mess.

 _Bring it on, Clown_.

He steeled himself for the inevitable blow, the endless stream of laughter and mocking comments that he was sure Joker would subject him to. Minutes passed like hours. Silence. Nothing but silence. His own breath sounded like thunder in his ears. What was the damn freak waiting for?

The removal of the trash bag came so fast it nearly took out a chunk of his hair as well. Cold, dank air assaulted his face and his lungs as he instinctively drew his first deep breath in hours. He might as well have breathed in a cup of water and as he lay spluttering and coughing on the ground, his eyes nearly blinded by a light that was unlikely to be very bright at all, Jason realized why Joker had let him languish like this for the last few hours. The satisfying grin on the Clown’s face confirmed it.

“You know, I’m starting to understand why Bats is always so brooding and silent.” Joker was strolling up and down in front of him now, every step an explosion in Jason’s ears. “You Robins talk enough for the both of you. And you’re even worse than the last boy blunder.” A spark of rage ignited in Jason’s stomach. He had had more than enough Dick shilling from Bruce already. He didn’t need it from Joker. “I guess knocking out two of your teeth wasn’t enough to drive the message home. Maybe we should give your brain a little nudge as well.” Jason watched him brandish the crowbar like a fancy umbrella. This was going to hurt.

“Where would you like to start? Backhead? Or forehead?”


	2. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all began with a Clown’s laughter, a crowbar and a lot of blood…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: graphic violence, physical and psychological torture, swearing, nudity, original character death  
> Side notes: While none of Jason’s character models in BAK include a cape, the fact that every Robin in every piece of Batman media wore one made me include it here. Other than that, this chapter is all original content.

_WHACK! THUMP! WHACK! THUMP! WHACK! THUMP! WHACK! THUMP! WHACK! THUMP!_

Like the particularly annoying beep of an alarm clock the sounds had buried themselves deep into Jason’s brain, to the point where he no longer heard them – he sensed them.

 _WHACK!_ The crowbar hit his head once more. Was that his forehead now or his backhead? He no longer knew.

 _THUMP!_ Joker’s foot hit his ribs in the same spot it had hit all those times before. By now, at least one of them was most likely broken.

How long had this been going on? How much strength could he possibly have in those thin little sticks he called arms?

 _WHACK!_ Definitely his forehead. Jason winced and cursed quietly as the crowbar ripped open the flesh above his right eye. Hot, thick blood streamed down his brow and into his eye. Not that that changed much. His mind had long since lost its ability to focus on any shapes in front of him. _Definitely a concussion_ , Robin mused. Things had already shifted into a blur. The red paint was only the finishing touch. On the bright side, his arm and ankle barely hurt anymore or at the very least the pain of something as simple as a broken bone had been pushed away by all the abuse his head had taken.

It wasn’t until his vision was thoroughly red that he noticed the subtle change. No thump. No foot in the ribs. This was not good.

“Well, I have to give you one thing, kiddo: you are _unbelievably_ thick-headed to still be awake after this.”

Gloved hands in his hair. Cold iron under his chin. A wide, red grin stretched out in front of his face. So close… If it weren’t for the stupid cuffs he could snap his neck right now. Gouge out his eyes. Break his face. Wipe that smug grin off those lips.

“Would you like to take a break, kiddo?”

 _Fuck you, Joker_. He could taste the iron on his tongue. If Joker wanted his blood, he should have it. With a grin of his own, Jason spat right into the Clown’s eye. To his surprise, Joker not only flinched back. He staggered. _Now or never, Robin_.

He brought his left leg around in a swift sweep, hitting the Clown’s ankles hard enough to send him stumbling. Granted, this single effort had already made his ribs and damaged arm scream in protest, but Jason didn’t hear it, didn’t want to hear it. Careful to avoid any pressure on his right foot, Jason flipped his body into a sitting position only to nearly lose the contents of his stomach. _Fuck this concussion_. Everything in his head was spinning. Everything in front of him was spinning. There were three Jokers now, wiping the blood out of their eyes while trying to regain their balance.

Three Jokers. One chance. He had had worse odds before.

He propelled himself forward with as much force as his single good foot could muster. Only a second later, the crowbar connected with his suit with a sickening crunch. The vest was armored, designed to absorb shock from falls, punches and bullets. Joker’s swing had not done any serious damage, he knew that much. His balance, however, was completely shot now. Staggering backwards, his body instinctively used both feet to try to rectify the situation and Jason could not suppress a pained scream as his ankle exploded into a fiery mess of pain. By the time he hit the ground on his right arm, the pain had spread all the way to his waist.

“I will take that as a ‘no’.” Joker’s voice sounded as if nothing had happened at all. Blinking heavily to get rid of the lingering dizziness and the red soup that slowly solidified over his right eye, Jason turned his remaining good eye upwards.

He barely caught a glimpse of the crowbar before it came down on his head.

_WHACK! THUMP! WHACK! THUMP! WHACK! THUMP! WHACK! THUMP! WHACK! THUMP!_

***

In the pale light of the moon, the bluish gleam of the Batcomputer holo looked almost ethereal. Jason had never liked that color. It always made him feel sedated, subdued, weary. He preferred red. Just returning from a long and busy night of patrolling Gotham was not helping. Still, he needed access to this damn file. Perched atop his favorite spot in all of Gotham – Mercy Bridge – with the wind rustling through his hair and the rain softly drizzling onto his suit and cape, he waited patiently as the numbers flew by in front of his eyes.

 _Fifteen dead_. Bruce had told him to steer clear of Joker and Penguin for his first unaccompanied patrol. His fingers itched as he scrolled through the file. Batman had been working this case for almost two weeks, but it was Jason who had just found the crucial lead.

 _I could do it. I could go there and stop him right now_ , Jason mused, yet something held him back. A feeling in his gut, like a mouse pondering whether it could cover the distance from one side of the barn to the other without ending up as cat food. _Batman said no going after the Joker. Don’t disappoint him_ , Robin warned, but it was not the Robin inside of him that stopped him in his tracks. It was the pinching in his left arm and his ribs, the sudden tickling in his right ankle, that stopped his mind from pondering ‘to go or not to go’. He was so tired all of a sudden. A quick glance at the Clock Tower told him it was almost midnight. _Time to go home_.

As he rolled onto the tips of his toes and stretched his arms towards the heavens to relax his muscles, all hell broke loose. Suddenly, the pinching and tickling turned into a nightmare like a thousand knives and shivs in his limbs. The rain was thick as a tidal wave. Water crawled into his eyes, his ears, his nose and between his cracked lips, winding its way into his lungs like a prowling snake.

When his eyes opened again, Mercy Bridge was gone.

***

The water escaped his mouth in sharp spurts and violent coughs, but his lungs were still freezing. He could feel his hair clinging to his head in ice cold tresses of black, just like his soaked suit clung to his back.

“Wakey, wakey!”

 _Joker. The Asylum_. Despite the nausea, the dizziness and the agony, Jason forced his eyes open. He was still in that room, broken, dirty, tiled floor and all, but he was no longer lying. All around him, the walls were tiled as well. Supposedly they had been white at some point. Now they were a dirty grey speckled with dots of brown. _Dried blood_ , his mind clarified. His left foot barely touched the ground, but if he stood on his toes, at least his right ankle would stop screaming. Above his head, a hook that suspiciously looked like something out of a butcher shop or a cheap horror movie held the ropes that now bound his wrists together. He clutched it quickly with his right hand to relieve the pressure on his broken arm, leaving his body strung taut between a floor he could barely reach and the device that held him. For all the pain that this position caused his shoulder, at the very least it gave him a better view of his surroundings.

The room looked to be square, at least judging from what he could see. _Five by five meters maybe?_ The stairs were nowhere in sight, so they were probably right behind him. There were no other entries or exits. No windows. Only one ridiculously tiny and consequently useless vent in the top right corner of the wall in front him. _Couldn’t have been Robin-sized, now, could it?_

“I hope you enjoyed that little bath. It’s the last one you’ll have all month.”

The Clown Prince of Crime was once more strolling in front of him, brandishing the crowbar like a fancy parasol. Jason wondered how long it had been since his failed attempt at gaining the upper hand. He had not considered it possible, but Joker looked even more hyper than before. His lips curved into another one of those sickening grins of his. “Let’s start over fresh, shall we?”

The first hit with the crowbar connected with his bruised rib. Gritting his teeth, Jason refused to give him the satisfaction of wincing. _Push it down, Robin. Batman will be here soon_. The second swing hit his back, forcing him to swing back and forth ever so slightly. It took all he had not to put any pressure on his broken bones. The third swing struck his shins, the fourth his calves. The pants of his suit were significantly less protected against damage than his vest, mostly because fewer thugs bothered to gun for them and because armor reduced mobility. Thanks to the shin guards, he had barely felt the first hit. The second however sent fresh pain along his muscles. It was not the pain that made his body freeze, though. It was Joker’s breath right next to his ear.

“You know one-sided communication is the death of any relationship right?”

If glares could kill, Joker would have dropped dead. _Push it down, Robin!_ Slowly, Jason turned his face away from the grinning madman. The mind games had finally started again. _Conserve, observe, stall_. Priority number 1, avoid any more damage to the broken bones. Priority number 2, ignore the pile of death-worshipping garbage and think of something else. The further from Arkham, the further from this, the better.

“Oh, stop the brooding, boy…” The fifth strike hit the back of his knees, the six his thighs. _Working his way upwards. Great_. As the crowbar connected with his hips, Jason willed his mind back to the manor, back to the prototype he had been working on. Lucius wanted it lighter, smaller and more resistant to the elements. Not a problem. “We both know you’re only prolonging the inevitable, right?” Joker’s voice crawled into Jason’s ear, but in his mind, his sketches slowly came to life, grey and red lines on immaculate paper. He was faintly aware of the cape being torn off his back before the crowbar descended again. This time, the pain in his back was worse, but it didn’t matter now. _Lighter. Smaller. More resistant. Ignore the pile of death-worshipping garbage_. He was good at this. Sketches. Designs. Tech. He would not disappoint Lucius. He would NEVER disappoint. Not Lucius, not Alfred, not Barbs, not Dick and not Bruce.

Years later, he would look back on this night and wonder if Bruce would have spared even the tiniest compliment for him, had he found him and realized that Jason had remained silent as a grave while Joker had been beating him with that damn crowbar until it tore his suit open in a dozen places. Years later, he would wonder if Bruce would have shown the tiniest bit of remorse at the sight of the hideous scar caused by the heavy iron burying itself in Jason’s back, missing the spine by less than an inch and ripping open his skin, flesh and muscle in one swift strike. Years later, he would wonder whether Bruce would have been proud. Jason had not made a sound as the Clown worked over every part of the boy’s body with a dirty crowbar.

***

The first thing he noticed upon waking again was that he was once again lying on his back.

The second thing he noticed was that he was cold. Bone-chillingly, freezing cold. The damp air of his little prison sent little pins and needles into his flesh as cold, unforgiving metal connected with his skin.

_Wait, what? Skin?_

His eyes shot open in a second and his hands and feet instantly buckled in an effort to get up. The surface above him was, for once, not tiled, although it did have panels. Was that the ceiling? It must have been. Underneath his back, cold metal pressed against his bruised body. He could feel thick and wide leather dig into his wrist and ankles and instantly knew what was happening here. He was strapped to a gurney. Naked and strapped to a gurney. This was not good. Strangely enough, it was not the lack of his suit though that sent his breath hitching and his heartbeat racing. It was the lack of his domino mask.

When he had first donned the Robin costume, Jason had considered the little strip of black by far the most ridiculous part of the entire getup. Supposedly, domino masks would not suffice in fooling people who knew you, but they would be decent enough at confusing people who did not. Jason had always had trouble believing that. When he put the damn thing on for the first time and looked in the mirror, he didn’t see much difference, except that his eyes looked less moonstone blue and more gunmetal grey now. The devil was in the details though, and he soon learned to appreciate all the amazing features Lucius had managed to pack into this little accessory: cowl vision, cowl communications, vitals monitors, trackers. The Robin mask may have looked stupid, but it was a marvel of compact gadgetry and he could appreciate it for that alone. Soon, he had started tinkering with it, adjusting the color of the cowl vision from that hideous Batcomputer blue to his favorite scarlet red, moving certain displays and touch sensors to where they were more comfortable for his head shape, bone structure and hand-eye coordination. Batman had protested his changes at first, but had finally relented when Jason had pointed out to him that HE was the one who wore the damn thing night after night, not Bruce. In a way, the mask had become his very first gadget project and tinkering with it had given him a joy he had never felt before for any kind of craft.

Now, stripped of what was possibly the most crucial part of Robin, Jason felt utterly naked and defenseless.

Far above to his right, the sound of creaking metal broke his trail of thought. Someone had opened the trap door. Judging from the sounds that were slowly descending to his level, Joker was not alone this time. On the bright side, being fully awake and not in the middle of falling-down-the-stairs-while-trying-not-to-break-his-neck, Jason finally had a chance to count. Sixty-five. Sixty-five steps out of this hellhole. With the condition his ankle was in, he wondered if he would even manage half of them.

He turned out to be right on one issue: Joker was not alone. Just slightly ahead of him, a woman in a white Asylum coat hesitantly approached the gurney. Her face, slightly wrinkled and framed by half-grey hair, was a mask of sheer terror.

“See, pumpkin: I don’t even need to take you upstairs to hand you over to the doctors – I’m bringing the doctors straight to you! All because I care so much.” Joker’s voice was dripping with smug satisfaction as he circled his captured prey, but Jason pushed his fury down. It had already gotten him into trouble twice. Now was really not the time. Instead, he focused on the bag in the physician’s hand. “See, Dr. Miles here is going to treat your injuries tonight. We can’t have you dying just yet. After all, Batman is taking his sweet time, isn’t he?” That hurt more than most of the wounds in Jason’s body. Where was Bruce? What was keeping him?

“He’ll come. He’ll come for me.”

The doctor’s eyes darted back and forth between the bound boy in front of her and the clown leaning on the other side of the gurney. He watched Joker’s grin widen, the glee of madness bright in his green eyes. “Go on, Mrs. Miles. Would be a shame if anything were to happen to my boy here… or to yours…”

The woman froze instantly. When she looked directly at his face for the first time, her eyes practically screamed ‘I’m sorry’. Jason just blinked and stared at the ceiling instead. Joker had this woman’s child. If Jason had had a son and someone would have taken him, then ordered him to cut apart another boy, he would have done it without hesitation. Whatever this woman was going to do to him, he would not blame her.

With trembling hands but professionally methodical movements, the woman examined his body from head to toe. As Joker made her explain every single injury piece by piece, the full extent of his trauma finally dawned on Jason. To his surprise, his skull had not been cracked. Neither had most of the other places Joker had hit. Jason had always been tough, suffering no more than heavy bruises where other people got fractures. Still, the crowbar had done its fair share of damage, tearing open his skin and flesh in several places. Unless the wounds were cleaned out properly, he was in for a bunch of nasty infections.

“Well, go on then, Dr. Miles.” Joker cooed. “I believe you will find everything you need in that bag I provided.”

He watched in trepidation as the doctor reached deep into the black bag and pulled out its contents one by one. Scalpels, splints, cast mixtures, bandages. He had half expected butter knives, spokes, chewing gum and dirty rags. Something was not adding up. As the doctor removed the last item, realization dawned on both of them at the same time.

The last remaining item was a bottle of absinth.

“He needs proper saniti-“

That made Joker laugh. Like a hyena, the sound of his voice became more grating with every second, bouncing off the walls in the small dungeon and crawling deep into Jason’s ears.

“And I don’t see any painkillers…”

That made the Clown’s laugh ebb out into a light snicker. His eyes rested on Jason now. “Oh, he’s a big boy. He won’t need any painkillers, will you now, Robin?” This was going to hurt. Badly. Jason forced his gaze back up to the ceiling. Anywhere but the Clown’s face would do. “Don’t worry, bird boy…” Joker continued almost tenderly, “I will even hold your hand through it all.” He could feel the gloved fingers clutch his left hand and felt sick to his stomach. The last thing he needed was that freak touching him. “Begin.”

Slowly, the doctor’s hands moved to douse a piece of the bandages in absinth. She gave him one last pleading, apologetic look, before pressing the fabric to the cut above his eye and sending a raging fire through his face. Still, the pain paled in comparison to the inferno that was a pair of medical pincers slowly pulling chunks of dirt and broken cowl fabric from the wound. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists until he could feel the blood flowing away from his knuckles. To his left, Joker started giggling like a little school girl, then stroked Jason’s hand carefully.

“Rock-a-bye birdie, on the chop block,

When the booze flows, you’ll go into shock,

When the knife cuts, your courage will fall,

And loud will scream birdie, throughout this hall.”

Joker’s voice bounced off the walls and right into Jason’s skull, where it echoed a dozen times before mingling with the scream that ripped from his sore throat as Dr. Miles set his broken arm back straight. It felt like having the limb broken all over again, only with the added bonus of searing absinth in an open wound. The clown’s voice broke into another bout of laughter, then went back to the god-awful lullaby from hell _. He will come for you_ , Robin assured him. _He will come for you, eventually, and he will make the bastard pay._

Jason hoped that it was true. As his mind faded into blackness from the trauma heaved upon his battered body, he hoped.

***

In his first dream, Jason fell and fell and fell through a pool of infinite darkness. The feeling was strangely familiar – he jumped off high buildings into free falls before gliding at least half a dozen times a night – and uncomfortably scary. For starters, he was falling back first. Secondly, he was missing his cape. _I’m going to be flat as a pancake by the time I land_ , his mind mused almost nonchalantly. From the depths of the darkness, Joker’s voice was singing Humpty Dumpty, always close to his ear, yet never near enough to pinpoint. The fall never ended.

In his second dream, Jason observed his skin erupt into a blazing inferno as the absinth dripped on it, drop by drop. He watched in horror as the soft pink turned scarlet, then rusty as layer after layer of his skin and flesh cracked and peeled, leaving the white bone open to the flames. Soon that was charred, too. All around him, Joker was singing Rock-a-bye Birdie. He could feel the Clown’s gloved fingers poking into the open wounds, twisting and turning and probing. The pain was bad. The disgust was worse.

In his third and last dream, Jason was back in the manor, sitting in his room, at his desk, in his chair, arms resting by his sides as he watched his latest design rendered into 3D. The screen turned from red to purple slowly, the straight lines twisting into sadistic grins. When he moved to fix the issue, he found himself unable to move anything except for his head. Like a thousand nails and needles, sharp stings spiked all over his arms and legs. Joker was laughing.

When he awoke, Jason found himself face to face with Joker’s bleached grin and his body firmly tied to an old-fashioned medical wheel chair. He could see instantly where the needles were coming from. The barb wire was all over him.

“Ah, so much fun watching you wriggle in your restraints…” The Joker circled him slowly, one hand gently trailing from Jason’s right shoulder to his left. It made him feel sick to his stomach. _At least_ , Jason thought glumly, _I’ve got some clothes this time, even if it’s only a cross between a damn patient’s gown and a straitjacket_. “I’m _really_ sorry about all the ropes and wires,” Joker continued at last, “but Dr. Miles said I’d have to immobilize you if I want all those broken little bones of yours to heal right. Doctor’s orders.”

“Like you care!” He spat out the words like they were poison. “Just go to hell!”

“That’s the spirit!” The slap that followed was hardly more than playful, yet it sent Jason’s head ringing. The bandages that snaked all throughout his hair were not helping. “You were being awfully quiet before. I had almost feared you’d already lost your fire.” He seemed to ponder that for a few seconds, then laughed his usual insane laugh. By the time he had calmed down again, Jason could feel the Clown’s breath on his neck, both his hands resting firmly on his shoulders. “I can’t kill you, yet, lamb chop. Bats hasn’t even gotten an inch closer to rescuing you yet.”

 _Ignore it, Robin_. He swallowed hard. Joker was a notorious liar. Surely it was a lie. Definitely. Besides, how long had it been, since he had been captured anyway? To his horror, the Clown seemed to have read his mind.

“You’d think three days would have been enough for the ‘World’s Greatest Detective’, but I guess he’s not in a big hurry. You’re only Replacement Robin after all, aren’t you, chump?”

 _Three days?_ Jason felt his heart sink. It had felt like three weeks already. Now that he thought about it, though, it made sense. He could feel that his stomach was empty and hollow, but the lack of rumbling and the lack of muscle loss proved that he had not been nearly starved enough yet for it to be three weeks. It would happen soon, though, and with every day that his body would eat up more of his muscle in a desperate attempt to conserve energy escape would become less likely. Not that he was going to go anywhere tied down as he was.

“Now, I am sad to say that I have some rather important business to take care of.” At last, Joker moved away from him. The relief that flooded Jason’s body was almost unreal. Every inch between him and this maniac was a blessing. “But don’t worry…” Once more, Joker’s face was right in front of him. He itched to put his fist through that grinning mouth, but even his good arm could not budge. “I have made sure that you will be very, very well taken care of. I have even brought you an old friend to keep you company.”

Jason barely had time to widen his eyes in horror as Joker retrieved a black, plastic trash bag from the back of the chair before his world once again was shrouded in near darkness and muffled sounds. _Not again. Please don’t do it again. Please_. His breath condensed against the plastic, leaving him cold and hot at the same time. He was faintly aware of Joker’s footsteps receding and ascending. Then the trap door creaked and clinked shut. Almost instantly, Joker’s distant laughter crept through the darkness from every direction, only this time, it had a certain static, almost mechanical note to it. The sound was quiet, like the hum from a well-cooled computer system – loud enough to be noticed, but not so loud as to be obnoxious. _He recorded it_ , Jason realized with dread. _Just great_. So not only would he be stuck, nearly immobilized and almost suffocating in this hellhole, he would also have to put up with an infinite looping of Joker’s craziness. “Batman, will come. He will come for me. I know it.”

Jason repeated the words a dozen times other, but still could not shake the feeling that his mantra was no saner than the place he was in. This was going to be a long, long wait.

***

By the time Joker returned, his laughter had long-since etched itself into Jason’s mind. He went to sleep with it gnawing at his ear, dreamed of it snaking through his skull and awoke with it creeping underneath the bag. Joker’s voice was the only company he had had, outside of the occasional visit from two unlucky mooks that had the unceremonious task of shoving up the bag just enough to bare Jason’s mouth, then force a tube down his throat so they could pump some kind of processed slush into his stomach, and emptying the bedpan installed in the wheelchair. Only one good thing had come of those short and painful visits: thanks to Joker’s goons whining about their daily task, he finally had an idea of just how long he had been stuck down there. Of course, the helpful chatter came with a decidedly unhelpful side dish of insults, taunts and empty threats, as well as a thorough beating, but it was better than nothing. And compared to the hits with the crowbar, the punches were roses and kisses.

Six weeks.

Six weeks and yet hope sprung eternal. Every time the trap door creaked, every time steps descended down the stairs, Jason found himself raising his head in the vain hope that maybe now Bruce had finally found him. How hard could it be, anyway? Bruce was nothing if not persistent. Yet each time his hopes were crushed the recorded laughter seemed to get just a little louder.

Six goddamn weeks.

When Joker did finally return, he was not alone.

For starters, Dr. Miles was with him. Jason recognized the trembling of her gloved hands almost as quickly as the sting of the absinth as she removed his bandages one by one and checked each spot for torn stitches and reopened wounds. His two casts were discarded next. For the first time in six weeks, he was able to move his right ankle without feeling like somebody had taken a hacksaw to his bones. When Dr. Miles informed Joker that his ‘patient’ had recovered remarkably well and would not require any further medical attention, her voice bordered on terrified. Ten seconds later, the sound of a gun shot rang through the air. Jason could feel her hot blood on his shoulder as the body fell to the floor next to him. “Guess that was one of the live ones!” Jason could practically feel him grinning. _Probably his toy-flag six-shooter_ , Robin concluded sullenly.

Someone undid his bindings and strung him back up onto the meat hook. At last, the plastic bag was removed and Jason found himself once more face to face with the Clown Prince of Crime. As predicted, Joker was grinning ear to ear. “Did you miss me, Jason?”

Jason froze instantly. Despite his best efforts, at least some of his shock must have reflected on his face, because it sent Joker howling with laughter. _How? Just how?_ Had he hacked the gauntlets or the mask? Jason doubted it. Bruce and Lucius had buried them under layers upon layers of encryption. They required conscious operation by someone with either Bruce’s or Jason’s DNA and finger prints, and, with the notable exception of the tracker, were designed to self-disable if not used at least once every five minutes. No way did Joker have the technical genius to bypass Batman’s safety protocols.

“Don’t be so shocked now, Jason.” Joker’s voice was dripping with smugness. “It was really quite easy. A fingerprint from inside your gauntlets here, a corrupt cop there, quick search in some databases…” He watched as Joker had one of his goons hand him the battered Robin suit. He stroked it like a widower would stroke his deceased wife’s wedding gown. “Really quite a shame you know. You have a wrap sheet longer than most of Penguin’s half-wits. You could have had a great career if that misguided goldilocks billionaire hadn’t picked you up.” Jason felt his stomach curl into a tight knot as the memories came back to him. _Stealing the tires off the Batmobile. The fiasco at the orphanage. Wayne Enterprises’_ Second Chance _program to put troubled kids directly into good families instead of sending them through the shithole that was Gotham’s foster system first and Bruce ‘spearheading’ said program by officially adopting Jason Peter Todd as his own son_. Jason had often wondered where he would have ended up without Batman. Shot or stabbed in some alley? Muscle for one of the big guys? Best car part thief and dealer in all of Gotham? Gun for hire? None of the options had seemed pleasant. Except given where he was now, at the very least, he probably would not have ended up chained underneath an abandoned wing of Arkham Asylum by a homicidal maniac with a serious clown fetish.

 _THAT is neither Bruce’s fault nor Batman’s_ , Robin chided. _He will get you out of here_.

“Oh well, no crying over spilled blood.” Joker tossed the Robin suit into one of the corners as if it were an old piece of trash, before making his way to the stairs. “Now, I have a big surprise for you that will be ready in about… ten minutes, so why don’t you hang out here a little longer, while I go and grab the popcorn.” He watched the Clown take the first few steps, only to turn on his heels and look back to his two henchmen. “Oh, boys, don’t forget to reunite Dr. Miles here with her son.”

With a few annoyed grunts, Joker’s goons picked up the dead woman and carried her slowly up the stairs. Jason couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. He barely knew anything about this woman and while she had not been chained up in a dungeon for the last six weeks, she had been just as much Joker’s prisoner as he was. Only no one was coming to save her. Even if they did, it would be too late now. He felt even worse for her son, who had probably died a painful death without ever knowing why.

“If I ever get out of here, I’m going to break every bone in your body, Joker.”

As the trap door closed, a flicker of hope sparked inside him. Perhaps ‘ever’ would be sooner than he had thought.

He had had six weeks to become familiar with every single sound in this cell. Every time he had visitors, it was the same: thud, screech, click, creak, steps, visiting hours, steps, creak, click, screech, thud.

Only this time there was no click.

 _Those idiots forgot to lock the door_ … Jason could hardly believe his luck. It sounded too good to be true. _A trap, most likely_ , Robin wondered, but it was the best chance he had had in six weeks and he had never been one for waiting. If he had had a nickel for every time Batman had chided him for choosing sudden assaults over patient stalking, he would be richer than Bruce. Still, Jason was no fool. So far, his instincts had never failed him. Perhaps he got a few more bruises out of his approach than he needed, but he could take those. What mattered were the results.

_What matters is that I am finally getting out of here._

Both his barely healed arm and the weakened muscles in his torso protested as he drew his legs upward until he was hanging upside down – _like a bat_ – with his legs firmly wrapped around the chain that held the hook. If anything, the pain intensified his efforts. A few more days and a little less muscle mass and pulling that stunt would become impossible. He slipped the ropes off the hook carefully, then climbed down the same way he had gone up. For the first time in weeks his right foot touched ground without sending pain throughout the rest of his body. He wanted to cry for joy.

Next was his Robin suit. He slipped out of the patient’s gown quickly and donned the suit faster than ever before. When he tried to reactivate the tracker in his gauntlet, his heart sank.

Apparently, Joker really had tried to crack the damn thing. And fried it in the process. His gauntlets were dead, almost useless now. _Almost. They still make for good guards_. The same held true for his boots and shin guards. Back in his nearly complete suit, Jason felt almost normal again. Almost. Minus the cowl and cape. Plus the torture.

He ascended the steps with catlike tread, counting as he went along. There really were sixty-five. The motion of walking, sneaking, felt strangely familiar and alien at once, like riding a bike for the first time after a long time. Once at the top, he pressed his ear against the trap door, but no sound was coming from the other side. This was going to have to be his leap of faith. He may have had a bad temper and he may have been rash and impulsive, but he wasn’t stupid. Whatever was waiting beyond that door, he would have to come up with a solution in a split second. Taking a deep breath, Jason pushed up the heavy metal and slipped out into the hallway.

Nothing.

 _Not even a single guard?_ He didn’t like it. It was too quiet. Too easy. Still, there was no going back now. _Twenty steps_ , Jason reminded himself as clung to the walls like a shadow. _Turn left. Six steps. Turn right_. Another set of twenty stairs proved to him that his mind at least was still as sharp as it had been the day of his capture. _Turn left, fourteen steps ahead, turn left and left again, forty-five steps, turn right._

The last flight of stairs stood directly in front of him, almost mocking him, daring him to try. Every step was agony and not just because his ankle protested being put through its paces so soon after melding back into one piece. He could see it now, clear as day, in his mind. How he would make straight for the nearest inhabited structure – the entrance of Arkham Asylum. The guards there knew him. He could see himself picking up the Batphone Bruce had left at the Asylum in case anyone ever needed to reach him directly, because of a breakout or riot. He could hear Batman’s, Bruce’s voice, on the other end of the line, the shock and relief upon hearing Jason. He could see the Batmobile rolling up, feel the comfort of its soothing darkness as he collapsed in the backseat. He could see the manor, splendid in all its glory, and Alfred’s face, stoic as ever, yet his eyes full of relief and joy upon having Master Todd back at home. He could feel the comforting warmth of his room’s shower and his bed, the hugs from Dick and Barbara and Lucius as he meets with them to prove that, yes, this is really him and he really is still alive. He could almost taste, almost smell, almost feel the rain, the fresh air on his face. Above him, the sky was already glittering with stars.

At last, he reached the top of the stairs. _Right turn, fifteen steps-_

He was one left turn and twenty-two steps away from freedom when the crowbar connected, shattering his freshly healed ankle once more. Through the thick wall of pain gripping his body as he stumbled and fell, Joker’s face stared at him, smile stretched wide, the laughter echoing throughout the halls.

“SURPRISE!”


	3. Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Joker’s games grow ever crueler, Jason struggles to keep his sanity and secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: graphic violence, physical and psychological torture, swearing, references to past sexual abuse, non-consensual drug use  
> Side notes: Most of this chapter is original content, although Joker does reference his fondness for varied torture devices in BAK (when talking to Firefly after locking him up).

He should have known better. Of course it was a trap. Of course the damned door had been left unlocked on purpose. Of course Joker had been waiting for the punch line somewhere. He had been a fool to hope.

And yet, hope was all Jason had at this point.

This time, no one bothered to cover his head as they led him back down into his cell. Why would they? He was not going anywhere. Not with a freshly broken ankle and Joker watching his every move. The sick grin on the Clown’s face was as red as the blood in Jason’s boots. “I must say, the look on your face was priceless, Todders.” Down in the dungeon, Joker’s men were already waiting. A gurney had been set up and Jason knew instantly that a broken ankle would be the least of his worries.

He had been so close…

“Still, can’t have you running off to bat-daddy just yet.” As Joker’s men moved to strap him down, Jason’s right fist came up hard and fast against a lantern jaw. He would be damned if he was not going to make these bastards bleed a little at least. As the thug on Jason’s left tried to wrench his arm backwards, he used what strength remained in his good leg to push upwards and break out the man’s upper incisors with his forehead. More clown make-up faces stepped forward, but it was a heavy crowbar swing to the stomach that finally brought him down. Despite the suit, the impact had hit him harder than he had expected. _Most likely due to the loss of muscle_ , Robin mused.

As the heavy leather restraints clipped shut against his wrists, Jason knew that it was over. There were too many goons in the room for him to take down with only one good leg. _Bruce could probably have done it_ , Jason thought with a tinge of jealousy and anger. Where the hell was he? What was taking him so long?

“Actually, I am quite disappointed,” Joker quipped as his men were moving to restrain Jason’s legs. They stripped him off his boots and shin guards before tying the leather tightly just below his knees. With trepidation Jason glanced down at his right ankle, only to see the bone poking out the right side of his foot. It instantly made the injury hurt twice as badly. “The first Robin would never have fallen for that,” Joker continued. “Now I know why Bats tried to keep you out of my way for so long. Guess he knew you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

“Screw you, Joker!” He really wanted to murder this man, this monster. Jason knew he was lying. He knew it wasn’t true. Dick himself had often said that Bruce had not let him go anywhere near the Joker himself in the beginning either. And yet part of Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that Joker was right and it only made him hate the clown even more. And, sadly enough, it even made him angry at Bruce. How hard could it be for his mentor to utter the words ‘well done’ every once in a while? _Push it down_ , Robin insisted _. Push it down_. With a deep breath, Jason closed his eyes and steeled himself for whatever deranged game was in store for him next.

Another one of Joker’s thugs came down the stairs, a heavy metal box held securely in his hands. He put the container down next to his boss, then hurried to get back to the surface with the others. Joker stroked the metal container as if he were petting a puppy. “Now, you and I are going to play a nice little version of the good old Truth or Dare, Jason: I’ll ask you a question and every time you give me the honest-to-the-old-man bat-truth and nothing but the bat-truth, you’ll get a treat. Every time you lie or say nothing…” He kicked the lid open like a little boy kicking an unwanted present. Jason’s face remained unchanged, yet he could feel his heart skip a beat. This was going to be awful. “I’ll even let you pick the toy!” Joker gleamed. _How kind_.

Jason eyed the contents of the box carefully. Knife, hammer, nails, pliers, saw, drill, wire, sanding paper. All of them used and worn and rusty. One of the first lessons he had learned on the street was that the raw brutality of any weapon was indirectly proportional to its cost. He had seen what cheap tools could do to a body and it was never pretty.

_“Hold him down, Jim. We are going to get that crappy little ink disaster off his shoulder first.”_

_Push it down, Jason_. He shook in disgust as the memory burst into his brain unbidden. Why did he have to remember this now, of all times? He had enough crap to deal with already. From behind the crate, Joker’s grin widened. _Great._ Now he had given the bastard what he wanted. “Come on, Jason, we don’t have all day.” _A gun that disables guns, trackers and jammers._ Jason closed his eyes and willed his mind back to happier days. Lucius had been so proud of him… “You know, if you won’t decide, I’ll just have to convince you with this bottle.” _What bottle?_ Part of him desperately wanted to look, but he knew no good would come of it. The best he could do would be to will his mind out of this dungeon. “I suppose I could start with your eyes, see as you’re not planning on doing anything with them.” Small steps coming closer, a hand on the side of his head, turning him side-face. A thumb lifting his left eye lid. Even through the blur that was his half-open eye, Jason could see the vial in Joker’s free hand and panic clenched around him like a fist.

_H2SO4. Sulfuric Acid._

The hazard labels were staring him right in the face. What was the percentage on the bottle? Thirty-five? Fifty-five? He couldn’t clearly identify the first number, but it would not matter. If that were to go into his eyes, he would be blind. Forever.

“So, what’s it going to be then, Jason? Permanent blindness or a few hours of playful fun?”

“You’re bluffing.” He just had to be. What use would there be in blinding him, in depriving him of the horror of seeing whatever else the Joker had in mind for him? To his left, Joker’s grin grew wider with each millisecond. “Do you really believe that, Jason?” Inch by inch, the vial moved closer. With the cap already off, all it would take would be one quick tilt of the hand… As the glass came closer to his eyes, the tiny letters grew sharp enough for him to read every word. _Do not ingest. Do not get in contact with skin or eyes. If contact is made, rinse thoroughly with water for 20 minutes_.

Knowing the Joker, he would rinse it with vinegar.

“Hammer! Hammer.”

The vial came to a stop less than an inch from his eyeball. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Joker’s grin turned into giggles then laughter as he screwed the lid back onto the bottle and returned to the box. His bony fingers picked up the hammer as if it were made of delicate glass. “Excellent choice, Todders…” – right before tossing it over his shoulder carelessly. “But you should really know by now that YOU are not the one in charge here. I guess I will have to _drill_ that into your empty skull.”

 _Dear God, no._ Jason’s heart sank as he watched the battery-powered tool come to life in the Clown’s hand, but it was the sound that made him cringe. _Please, dear God don’t let him put that through my eyes._

“So, first question.” Joker was in front of him again, one hand on the drill, the other on his hip. “What’s your favorite color?”

“What?” He couldn’t help himself. Here he was, bound and broken in a dungeon with a madman and THAT was the big question? If he had asked about Batman, at least Jason would have had his answer cut, set and ready. Bruce had drilled the cover story into him during the first capture emergency class and had made him repeat it back semi-regularly ever since. Certainly this was another one of Joker’s sick tricks.

“WHAT-“ Joker brought the tool down onto Jason’s right foot.

“IS-“ Like a kid poking a dead animal with a stick.

“YOUR-“ Skin, flesh and muscle gave way in sharp bouts of agony.

“FAVORITE-“ Metal bore into his every fiber.

“COLOR?” Hole by hole.

“RED!” From the holes in his foot, blood was flowing down onto the tiles. “It’s red.” That was the truth, too, even though he wasn’t sure if Joker would actually believe it. Given what had just happened, he would not be surprised if the bastard would do the same thing to his left foot as well. Just for laughs.

To Jason’s endless relief, the spinning cylinder came to a stop slowly. “Very good, Jason. See, we are starting to get along.” Biting down on the insides of his mouth to keep the pain and tears away, Jason watched helplessly as the clown pushed the drill right beneath his chin. “Now, tell me, who wore this ridiculous leather fetish get-up before you?”

 _Dick Grayson_. The first Robin. His brother in a manner of speaking – technically, legally. And sometimes, in those precious few moments when he was actually Dick Grayson and not former Robin or Nightwing, even personally. He could see him clear as day, his azure eyes so much brighter than Bruce’s or Jason’s, but the same ebony black hair. The unshattered smile. The easy, laid-back, no-care-in-the-world attitude. He could see him trapped in a dungeon, strapped to a gurney with a drill boring though those quick and steady acrobat’s feet of his. He would never be able to pull any of his best stunts ever again.

“No one.”

It wasn’t the answer Joker wanted, but it was the truth, too. Dick’s Robin suit was still in the Batcave. Bruce kept it in a special little box that held all of his gadgets as well. To Alfred and Jason he had justified it as a back-up, in case Dick ever decided to return to the manor. When Jason had grown up to pack much broader shoulders and a lot more muscle than his older brother it had only given Bruce another excuse to make the Robin 2.0 suit, but neither Jason nor Alfred had fallen for it. Dick’s departure from the manor was an open wound. To Bruce, he’d always be Robin. And so Jason had gotten a suspiciously similar and yet entirely new suit. It belonged to him and no one else.

“Come on, Jason, we were making so much progress!” One by one, the layers of Jason’s left foot came apart as the drill descended, forcing a drawn-out scream from his throat. “Who. Was. The. First. Robin?” By now, the blood was sprawled in a pool to his feet, but Jason didn’t care. Dick did not deserve this. Nobody deserved this. “I only want his name.” Slowly, the drill went into Jason’s right calf, destroying what muscles were still left after his torture. “Why suffer for that brat?”

“Go to hell, you son of a bitch!” Closing his eyes against the pain, Jason screamed as Joker gave him a matching pair. By the time Joker was done, Jason had two dozen new holes in his legs. To his surprise, Joker had managed not to touch a single bone. For now.

“You really are thick-headed, Todders.” Jason’s eyes fluttered open and shut in a haze. Everything around him was going fuzzy. Somewhere between the pain and the clown’s laughter he had nearly fainted. Unfortunately, only nearly. “I suppose we will have to finish this another day. You look like you could use a break.” That drew a hideous laugh from the Clown. He was faintly aware of Joker putting the drill back into the box, still covered in blood and bits of skin, before reaching for a flask next to the gurney. A few seconds later, the familiar burning of absinth in open wounds tore another scream from Jason’s sore throat. It wasn’t until Joker’s hands pushed his broken ankle back into position that the merciful darkness finally took him.

***

When he awoke again, Jason was back in the Coventry. He was running. His breath burned in his lungs. His footsteps sounded like thunder against the rain-sodden asphalt and the deranged laughter emanating from the darkness around him. Behind him, even louder, heavier steps chased his shadow. In front of him, Michael helped Cory over the brick wall that cut off their escape route. To Michael it was just a wall. To Cory and Jason it might as well have been a tower.

“Michael, wait!” He raced to keep up, but slipped on the trash some idiot had spilled next to the garbage can. This entire raid had gone south. It was supposed to be a quick job and – at last – Jason’s ticket out of the endless car part pawning. Michael had had his eyes on Bishop’s drug stash for some time now, but he had needed two kids Cory’s size to get in and get out. That is when Jason had been made part of the gang, the family. He even had the tat to prove it.

Now, as Cory slipped down the safe side of the wall with all the loot and Michael was nearly done climbing over the damn thing, his words rang hollow in Jason’s ear. _We’re family, J. We’re looking out for each other._

What kind of looking out left a twelve-year-old boy trapped in a dead end with six murderous thugs behind him?

He watched Michael disappear behind the wall. It was over now. No way out, but he did not want to go down without a fight. He reached for the first thing he could find – a broken piece of pipe – and steeled himself for the inevitable. Bishop’s men came to a quick stop in front of him. One of them nearly bent over with laughter. “Really, kid? What you think you’re gonna do with that, punk?”

The fight was over before it had fully started. Six against one were unfair odds after all. To add insult to injury, Bishop’s men were soon beating him up with the same steel pipe he had intended to use against them. It wasn’t until he was face down in the mud that the beatings stopped. By then, every inch of his torso was crawling with pain and his breath came in heavy wheezes. An expensive leather boot kicked him right in the face to roll him over. “Well, look at that… What is a pretty young street rat like you doing trying to steal from me?” Blake Bishop towered above him, a giant clad from head to toe in clothes that had cost more money than Jason had ever possessed in his young life. He should never have run with Michael and his ‘family’. He should never have tried to steal from someone that rich. “Well, I guess your buddies won’t come back to help you, so why don’t we teach you a lesson right here and now?”

Jason winced as two of Bishop’s thugs lifted him up and bent him over the nearest garbage bin. “Hold him down, Jim. We are going to get that crappy little ink disaster off his shoulder first.” His back froze over as they took off his jacket and ripped his shirt in half. Cold, unforgiving rain hammered down on his bare skin, but the pins and needles were nothing compared to the searing pain of Bishop’s switchblade cutting through his flesh and removing the barely healed golf-ball-sized tattoo from Jason’s left shoulder. His screams were lost in the rain and even if anyone had heard, people in Gotham knew better than to go running in to help. “Good.” He felt Bishop’s fingers slide over the hole and down his back almost tenderly and felt sick. “And now you will pay me and my boys back for all the trouble you caused us tonight.”

***

When he finally woke up for real, Jason’s skin was still crawling, his stomach still turning. As his eyes finally managed to focus, the sickness faded, but the disgust remained. Apparently, getting tortured by a mad clown was not enough, oh no no no. He also had to have his mind dig up the worst parts of his memories as well. _Fan-fucking-tastic_. From the other side of the room, Joker was grinning at him like only a deranged lunatic could. “That sounded interesting. Want to tell me what ‘Blake’ did to you to make you scream and beg like that or do you want me to go the long route and try out everything I can come up with?”

“Go to hell.” Joker could bloody well try. The Clown was many different shades of crazy, but THAT had never been in his portfolio. And Jason decided he would sooner go blind, deaf and crippled than share that nightmare with anyone else.

“Alright, back to the tool box then! Just like you bats and birds and your gadgets…” Jason watched him open the box, running his hands over each of the tools inside. The drill was missing now. Judging from the heavily bandaged state of his lower legs, Joker didn’t want to exhaust his entire skin on one tool. _Awesome._ “So, what’s it going to be this time, Jason?”

“Saw.” A no-brainer. If Joker was going to mess with him by blatantly ignoring his choices, at least he could pick the thing that would cause the most damage and save himself some trouble.

“Saw it is then.” Joker clasped his hands together like a love-struck teenage girl, before reaching for the rusty coping saw. There was blood on the teeth and dirt in the gullets. “We’re going to have to be careful with this baby, Jason. So many important arteries running through your thighs…” As the metal started tearing into his hip, Jason willed his mind back to his designs. _Long barrel. Three, maybe four bullets. You can do this, Jason._

By the time Joker had stopped, his hip resembled a jigsaw puzzle. “Now, let’s start over, shall we?” What’s your favorite food?”

 _Oh no, not this time._ He was done playing this game. He was done losing. “Cut the crap and get to the point, will ya?” That made Joker laugh, a sound that echoed through the room and did not stop until it mingled with Jason’s anguished cry as the blade cut deep into his right thigh. “Very well…” Joker’s voice had suddenly become eerily low and dark. “If you don’t want to talk about Robin, why don’t we talk about Girlie Bats?”

 _Barbara_. Thinking of her was even more painful. Barbara Gordon may not have been his sibling by law, like Dick, but she was his big sister. Always there for him with a listening ear and open arms. At first, she had only been another mentor, a teacher Bruce had set him up with to help him catch up on eight years of lost academic progress, yet she had become much more. Beautiful, charming, funny, incredibly intelligent Barb… Jason had never been good at expressing positive or subtle emotions, yet when he had finally worked up the courage to tell her that he had a crush on her, the inevitable rejection (which he had expected) had come in a way so gentle and conciliatory that he had not even found it in himself to be angry (which he had not expected). He had lost a crush and gained a big sister. In hindsight, it was more than worth it. It was one of the few genuinely good turns of events his life had ever taken.

Joker could take him apart piece by piece if he wanted to. Jason was not going to tell him a single thing about her. And so, for the remainder of Joker’s latest session, for the remaining dozens of cuts, all the clown got out of him were tears and screams.

***

By the time Joker had run through all the tools, Jason’s stomach had become an empty, gaping hole. How long had it been since the last time he had gotten food and, consequently, since his failed escape? Someone must have poured some water down his throat at least once in a while during his long periods of unconsciousness, because his throat was not nearly dry enough to hint at dehydration. Still, the empty pit that was his stomach told him that it must have been more than a week since this sick game had begun. He could feel the tell-tale tickling in his feet as the holes began to heal and close. Sadly, neither the wire marks around his throat, nor the knife carvings on his chest, nor the nail punctures in his hands, nor the abrasions from the sanding paper on his arms, nor the many hammer-induced bruises on his head were anywhere close to that yet. His fingers and toes would take the longest time to heal, but at the very least Jason took some comfort in the fact that he had not revealed anything incriminating against Alfred, Lucius, Barbara, Dick or Bruce throughout it all. Not even when Joker had gotten to the pliers and started pulling all of Jason’s nails.

He wondered what all of them were doing now. Where were they? Were they all looking for him or had Bruce gone off on another this-is-too-dangerous-I-need-to-do-this-alone tangent? He wondered whether Lucius was still working on that prototype they had started together and whether Alfred had bothered to clean his room, despite Jason not being there. He could picture the indignant look of disgust on the butler’s face at seeing the thick layer of dust that had undoubtedly gathered on everything in Jason’s room by now. He wondered whether Barbara had finished that latest encryption protocol they had been working on and what Dick had done with the first Saturdays of June and July, now that Jason had not been there for their usual training sessions. Did they miss him as much as he missed them? How close were they to finding to him?

“Batman… where are you?” The tears came silently at first, then accompanied by slight sobs, sneaking up on him like a lion in tall grass. He wanted out of this place. He wanted it to be over. He wanted an end to that horrible laugh track that Joker had once more put on in his cell and he wanted an end to the constant stinging and searing in various parts of his body. He wanted out of this dank, dark, over-sized coffin. He would have killed for just a whiff of fresh air, for a glimpse of the sky. He tried to recall the last time he had been outside, but the images were faded in his head. He wondered how much longer it would be until trauma would fully erase them from his memory.

***

Days passed without a single sign of the Joker, except for his persistent background laughter. They had gone back to the old medical gown, plastic bag and wheel chair game, only this time Joker’s men seemed to have learned their lessons. There was no more talking, not even insults. The fists kept flying, though, and he could feel the bag cling to the right side of his face where the blows had split open his brows. There was also no more food and by the time Joker finally showed up again, whatever muscle had been left in Jason’s body had been almost eradicated. He knew why as soon as the bag was removed.

The first thing he saw as the bag came off was Joker’s face, at least two feet too close for Jason’s liking. Up close, the bleached white looked even more disturbing. The first thing he heard was the deafening sound of a party popper noisemaker directly next to his ear, followed by Joker’s very own rendition of ‘Happy Birthday To You’ in the most disturbing, sadistic tone Jason had ever heard. He’d rather have listened to fifty hours of Alfred singing than ten seconds of this.

As his eyes slowly recovered from the sudden light exposure and his ears stopped ringing, the full extent of his situation dawned on Jason. There was a calendar on the wall he was facing. The month was August, the picture a smashed Robin bird with a crude caricature of a laughing Batman drawn by its side. The first fifteen days had been crossed out, the sixteenth was circled red. August 16th. Today was Jason’s sixteenth birthday. There were streamers and ‘Happy Birthday’ banners with clown faces and dead Robins painted on them all over the wall.

“Not what you were expecting?” Joker sounded equal parts amused and excited. Something was going to go horribly wrong here. Jason was merely waiting for the hammer to drop.

The hammer turned out to be a giant, red, cherry-chocolate cake.

Joker placed the tray right in Jason’s lap. The alluring scents of maraschino cherries, vanilla icing and dark chocolate crawled up his nose and made his mouth water and his stomach growl. Jason had spent enough time on the streets, half-starved, to know that even one bite of this cake would be a terrible idea in his current state. Too much fat. Too much sugar. As much as his body yearned for this cake, he would come to regret eating it.

“So…” He watched as Joker grabbed a folding chair from near the stairs and sat down right in front of him. “…I’m curious: how do bats and birds celebrate their birthdays? Formation gliding? Tag-the-thug? Hide and sneak? Drug bust piñatas? Or maybe just some sleepovers with your favorite episodes of Sleepless In The Asylum?”

Jason glared at him across the cake. It was painful enough that the mere mention of watching TV on his birthday brought up bitter-sweet memories of his last two anniversaries, watching cheap action-flicks with Dick and Barb, laughing and joking at all the plot holes, inconsistencies and cheap effects while Bruce watched silently over them. Looking back, those two days had been the happiest days of his life. It all seemed so distant now, like it had happened a lifetime ago, to a different boy.

 _And it will never be the same again_ , a voice cooed from the darkest depths of his mind. _Never_.

Like hell he was going to tell Joker anything about it. “Just cut to the chase and tell me what sick parlor game you want to play next.” That made the clown laugh again. That hideous, bone-chilling laughter that had already etched itself into Jason’s nightmares.

“Oh, Jason… Todders… my wee little Toddy…” A gloved hand reached out to pat his hair and Jason instantly tried to recoil. “You are being way too serious for a sixteen-year-old! Where’s your rebellious teen spirit?” He watched in dread as Joker started cutting the cake. The inside of it looked even tastier than the outside. “Now, open wide and enjoy your birthday cake.” With a vice-like grip, Joker poked his fingers into Jason’s cheeks and forced his jaw open. Fork by fork the cake went into his mouth and his taste buds nearly exploded. The cherries were sublime, the cream incredible, the chocolate perfect. He didn’t even remember that food could taste so good. Against his better judgment, Jason swallowed. It was that or choke. By the time the first piece was gone, his stomach cried out for more.

“Good boy!” Joker’s grin stretched wider than Jason had ever seen. “Sweet Tooth really outdid himself this time.” He had leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head as if he were lounging at a beach. And then, all hell broke loose.

His body was coming apart. Everything burned. It felt as if a furnace had been kindled in his stomach and the flames were eating their way through his organs and flesh from the inside out. His lungs were raw, his heart racing. Sound and sight slowly started to escape from him, as his vision turned into a hazy, nightmarish version of his cell. A cough worked its way up his throat, twisting and turning until its pitch was higher than even his normal speaking voice. His lips curved until they were stretched into a wide grin, turning cries of agony into howls of hysteria.

On the other side of the tray, Joker was laughing with him.


	4. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has a breaking point. For Jason, it is a polaroid picture and a glowing, hot J.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: graphic violence, physical and psychological torture, mutilation, swearing  
> Side notes: Based on the first two torture scenes from the game (the picture of Robin 3.0 and the branding) and the fact that Jason’s face, on closer inspection, is riddled with scars. This one was painful to write. If you look at the second torture scene in-game closely, you can see that Jason avoids pressure on his right ankle, which led me to believe that Joker broke the bone over and over again.

Dark. Everything was dark around him. Was he finally dead? Relief flooded Jason at the thought. Death would be nice. No more torture. No more clown laughter. No more sick games. On the other hand, if this really was the afterlife, it was incredibly dull. No light. No sounds. No smells. No tastes. Maybe this was hell?

It was his first deep breath that proved him wrong.

He could feel the plastic against his lips as he sucked in the air, the heat and humidity as he exhaled. _Not again_. Of all the games Joker had played so far, this one was by far the worst. As he grew ever more aware of the plastic bag that covered his head, other familiar sensations returned. Joker’s laugh. The revolting smell of blood and badly circulated air. The feeling of the dungeon’s chilly, damp air all around him. He was in his Robin suit, but once more strapped to the same old wheelchair, barbwire piercing through the thinner parts of his costume and letting the cold air crawl along his skin. Every second that passed seemed to get drawn out more and more. He had long since lost any feeling of direction or time and his mind was going in circles. There were only so many good memories he could come back to before heading once more into a past he had hoped to forget. When he was asleep, nightmarish memories of the past and terrifying fears for his future wrecked his mind until he would finally wake up screaming. When he was awake, seconds ticked by like hours, the silence and solitude of his prison bearing down on him like black clouds of thunder. He had, at one point, contemplated talking to himself, voicing out loud the calculations that would normally go through his mind while he drew up new designs, but he knew it was neither a sane option, nor a safe one. There was too big a risk that he would miss the cut-off point, that he would, by mistake and sheer sloppiness, slip up and spill secrets he was not supposed to spill. He would not do that. Joker had already tortured him in far too many ways to get certain pieces of information from him.

And apparently, Joker had decided to up the ante.

His thugs no longer came by in regular intervals, making it impossible to keep track of time. Sometimes, he hardly grew thirsty at all. Sometimes he was nearly parched by the time he was force-fed with that disgusting tube down his throat, before being beaten into a bloody pulp. The visits were as brief as they were painful, but still decidedly less torturous than the few times when he would hear footsteps drawing closer only to come to a stop near him before turning back around again, heralding many more hours or even days without food and water. As time went on, he could feel the familiar tingling of healing wounds all over his body. Part of him found it darkly ironic that his only even half-reliable way to measure time were the very wounds Joker had inflicted on him. As his ankle slowly healed and his right foot finally regained some measure of mobility, Jason steeled himself for the inevitable visit from the Clown, yet for several days, possibly even weeks by his reckoning, nothing out of the ordinary happened.

He should have known that feeling. It was the calm before the storm.

It was just another day or possibly night with him trapped in the wheelchair when the footsteps bounced off the tiles and into his ears. It must have been at least two days since anyone had come by, judging from the familiar feeling of a nail-in-the-head migraine and the soreness of his throat and tongue that came with dehydration. It was not the heavy, hasty steps of one of the thugs, nor Joker’s usual skipping beat. No, those steps were strong and deliberate. Could it be?

“Batman? Is that you?” How long had it been now? At least four months and a half, as far as he could tell, probably longer. _I knew he wouldn’t give up_ , Robin cheered. He could practically feel the little candle of hope light up inside himself.

A light that was crushed by no more than eight words: “Batman is not coming to save you, Jason.”

As the bag was ripped off his head, Jason blinked against the sudden influx of light. His eyes were on fire. How long had it been since Joker had put the damn trash bag on him? He felt blind. Blind and utterly terrified. Joker coming downstairs in person never meant good things. “He’ll come.” It was the one mantra the Robin inside himself had been repeating over and over again. The one last hope he had to cling to. Somehow, saying it out loud gave him courage and comfort now.

“It’s been six months now, Jason,” Joker pointed out to him, but was it really? He had no way of telling. It might have been. Possibly. “I think it’s time to face facts.”

“Screw you!” Joker’s words had long since lost their threatening effect on him. The Clown was a liar, a drama queen and an evil psychopath. What bothered Jason were the two hands that came down on his shoulders, the mocking affection and gentleness of the gesture. Not even having been stuck in this chair for weeks had made him feel as dirty as Joker’s hands on him. He had too many scars on him that already proved what Joker’s affections were worth.

“That’s the spirit! You’re a real chip off the ol’ Bat block. Not that it’ll do you any good.”

“Why won’t you just kill me?” He had been meaning to ask that question for weeks. The thought had certainly crossed his mind before. How long could it possibly take for Joker to grow tired of these games? When would it finally be over?

“What?” Joker sounded positively appalled, as if Jason had just suggested he close up shop and move to another city. “No, no, no, no. I’m not going to kill you, not yet anyway.”

 _Not yet anyway_. The words turned Jason’s stomach upside down to the point where he had to actively focus on not throwing up. _But eventually. When I am done taking you apart and there is nothing left to destroy. When not even Batman would recognize you anymore, then I’ll murder you in the most horrific, most spectacular way possible._ Jason had learned to read between the lines a long time ago. He wondered how Joker was going to do it. Definitely somewhere public, where he could kill as many innocent bystanders as possible while he was at it. Maybe he’d chain him up in a ferris wheel of some amusement park full of little kids and then set the entire thing on fire. Maybe he’d drop him off in a hospital full of helpless, sick people, alert the news to the fact that Bruce Wayne’s ward was in there, wait until every single reporter in Gotham had wormed their way into the place and then blow them all up together. Hell, given how not even the sound of a bag of rice dropping in Chinatown would pass by Bruce’s communications and surveillance network, there was a good chance Bruce himself would get there before half the reporters had rolled up. Then you’d have a hospital full of dead patients, doctors and reporters AND a deceased billionaire. And, incidentally, no more Batman. _Wouldn’t that be a full house for him?_

“You’re my sidekick now. Imagine it!” Joker’s hands were on him again, ripping him straight out of what little diversion his pondering of potential death scenarios had provided. “You and me, out on the streets, starting fights, picking on the weak, a regular dynamic duo.” _Just stop. STOP_. Jason shook his head in frustration. He didn’t want to listen to anymore of this. “Just like Bats and that new kid of his.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” The thought had turned into a whisper before Jason could stop it. Bruce would never do that to him. NEVER. He was out there. He was looking for him. And once he found him, once he saved him from this miserable, wretched existence as a tortured, broken captive in a madman’s dungeon, he would bring him home, let him heal. And in time, Jason would join him on patrol again. Bruce would be twenty times more paranoid about his safety after that, of course, but it would be an acceptable trade-off. This was how it was going to be. This was the truth. Robin had never bothered to question it. Jason had never dared.

“You think? So this isn’t Batman then?” Joker held the photo right next to his face. He didn’t want to look. Part of him knew he shouldn’t. Still, curiosity got the better of him.

In the picture, Batman stood tall, dark and brooding, ever the statuesque figure of stoic resolution, with his back to the camera. In front of him – left in the picture – stood a boy roughly Jason’s height, his face half-concealed by his mask and hooded cape. His boots, pants and sleeves where the same greenish-black as Jason’s, albeit with golden highlights that reminded him of Batgirl’s interpretation of the Bat-style. His utility belt was packed with pouches. On the deep crimson of his vest, the black-and-yellow R shone proudly above his heart. _Robin._

“Weird. The pointy ears are usually a dead giveaway.”

“No!” _This isn’t real. Bruce would never do this. This isn’t real. Bruce would never to this to me. THIS ISN’T REAL! Bruce PROMISED he’d never abandon me. THIS CAN’T BE REAL._

His breath was gone. His heart was nearly exploding in his chest. All over his skin, the marks of all he had endured over the last months came to life with a vengeance, burning, searing, as his brain tried to process the implications of what he had just seen. Some dumb, ignorant part of his that was just too thick to get the message was faintly aware that Joker was talking to him again, touching him again, but it didn’t matter. The words flew past him like features of a landscape on a high speed train, too far and fast removed from where he was at the moment to have any impact. It wasn’t until he perceived more than heard that familiar bait-and-switch inflection, that sick anticipation in Joker’s voice that usually preceded hours of torture, that Jason found the strength to break out of the circles his mind was going in. He looked up into the general direction the Clown’s voice was coming from just in time to catch a crowbar to chest, sending him rolling back into one of the walls of his little prison. It hurt less than a flea bite. There was no place for pain in his mind. As Joker raised the crowbar and brought it down on his bruised and battered and broken body only one thought had room in Jason’s head.

_Why?_

Why had Batman chosen to abandon him? Hadn’t he done everything Bruce had asked of him and more? He thought back to the day they had first met, Jason stealing the tires off the Batmobile. Batman had caught him. Instead of beating ten tons of crap out of him, he had towered over him, all cowl and scowl, watching as Jason reattached the tires in record time. When Batman had dropped him off at the orphanage, he had not protested. When Batman had told him not to kill the head warden, despite everything the scum bag had done to the kids in his care, he had obeyed. When Bruce Wayne had adopted him, he had not complained. He had been terrified out of his mind for the first few months in the manor and yes, he had occasionally disappeared off into the night, but he had always come back. Yes, he had complained a lot, both before his training was done and after, small explosions of temper that may or may not have been justified, but in the end, he had always done what Bruce, what Batman had asked of him. He had not shot Willis Todd, that useless scumbag who had told his six-year-old son that he’d put a bullet through his head if he didn’t stop crying because mommy had come home bruised and bloody after trying to get more money to pay for her drugs, that parasite who’d left his wife and kid to fend for themselves and then had the gall to gloat about how that was the best decision of his life. He had wanted to end him, but he had not done it. Because that was how Batman, how Bruce had wanted it. He had passed his ‘solo patrol graduation exam’ with flying colors and while on patrol with Batman he had never disobeyed an order, unless the situation rendered the order null and void. They had argued, yes, but in the end, Jason had always relented. There were many sleazeballs Jason would gladly have put out of their misery, but had kept alive out of respect for Bruce. He had worked hard to become stronger, faster, smarter, better every day. For every hour of training and study Bruce had put on him, he had put in another hour to excel. For two years he had fought by Batman’s side during all those harsh fights for justice and he had stood by Bruce Wayne during all those tedious social events that neither he nor Bruce had any appreciation for. And in all those last six grueling months of pain and suffering and humiliation and degradation he had never, not once, given away any of Batman’s secrets. He had devoted his life to being Robin, a good Robin, the best he could be, and a good son to a man with too much money and too little family. A man, he would occasionally, in private, come to think of as a father.

And it was all for nothing.

Some other kid was wearing that suit now. Some other kid was living in Wayne Manor, playing Bruce Wayne’s son, training with Dick, studying with Barbara, joking with Lucius, conversing with Alfred and fighting with Batman. The memories of his fifteenth birthday burst into his brain – Dick and Barb and Bruce and him sitting on a couch, trashing cheap movies, except that it wasn’t him. It was this new kid. _The replacement_. He screamed and yelled at the four figures in front of him, but none of them even seemed to notice.

Why? WHAT had he done to deserve this? Was it that he had disabled his cowl and trackers to go after Joker? Was that really it? Was that so bad a sin, so terrible a crime that it was worth abandoning him like this? And if that was it, then how long had Bruce waited before replacing him? A month? A week? Had he even looked for him? Had he even tried? Or had this one act of defiance, this one broken rule just been the last straw? Was there something he had missed? Had Bruce just been waiting for an excuse to get rid of him? Maybe he had already had that other kid lined up.

Maybe everyone had been in on the joke, except for him.

The tears felt cold against his bloodied skin. _Salt._ He hadn’t tasted salt in ages. As the pain flowed freely from his eyes, he was faintly aware of someone hugging him, patting his now overlong and greasy hair in the darkness. “Hush, little Todders, hush!” For once, Joker’s voice did not make him want to punch the Clown in the face. For once, Jason was glad to have company, any company, even him. Maybe that was all he was worth, all he deserved. Joker. “I know it hurts. Poor baby.” The embrace was lifted, leaving him once more exposed to the chilly air of this dungeon. His skin was cool, but his insides were frozen. This was it. No one was coming to save him. He was as good as dead. He would be better off dead.

The first rope to go was the one around his left foot, followed by the right foot. Next came the one around his left hand and then, at last, the one around his right wrist. It felt so strange, being in control of his limbs again, like finding an old forgotten toy and not quite knowing what do with it. This time, when the crowbar to the backhead sent him swaying forward, his body moved from the seat, but by now any movement was so alien, all he could do was land clumsily on his left side as the chair rolled backwards and away from him. The barbwire was digging into his legs, arms and flank, but he barely felt it. The floor was even colder than the air around him and he curled up into a ball instinctively. He had been right. All those years ago, when he had first lain in that over-sized, immaculate, soft, warm bed in Wayne Manor, when he had refused to close his eyes for fear that if he did, he would wake up and it would all just have been a dream. He had been right. It had all been a dream, an illusion, a lie. This was real. This was him.

“I know… I know…” Joker was patting his shoulder again and the touch made him flinch. Not out of disgust, as it had done before, but because he was tired of the memories, the false hopes that came with it. “… a broken heart hurts.” The grin on Joker’s face was red as blood. “Let’s give you a matching head.”

As he watched the crowbar coming down onto his temple, the only thing Jason felt was relief.

***

Above him, the ceiling was creamy white, lined with blue, floral plasterwork along the sides. The bed was heavy oak, the sheets the same light blue as they had been the day he had come to the manor. Past the window, on the other side of the room, stood his desk, same wood, same color, empty as it had been when he had first arrived.

This was his room, yet at the same time, it was not.

He had replaced all the blue with red. He had repainted the plasterwork and Alfred had provided him with crimson bedding instead of cerulean. They had worked together to change the curtains. He had moved the bed so he could keep both the window and the door in sight at all times. He had decorated the walls with his sketches and his desk had soon been overflowing with sketching paper and pencils. He had had a PC for his desk, with a red screen saver and background.

None of it was there now. This room might as well have belonged to another person and he was getting bored of staring at the same stupid colors everywhere he looked.

Jason’s feet felt heavy as lead as he stepped over to the bookshelf, pulled out the slightly worn edition of Shakespeare’s Complete Works and tapped the wood in the precise spots he knew to contain sensors. One click and screech later, the book case slid aside to reveal Entrance 9. He counted the seconds as the elevator descended into the massive Batcave. Everything was pitch black and he could feel his breath condensate on his lips as the air grew colder. Once at the bottom, he made his way to the command center where he knew Batman would be waiting, already suited up and ready to go.

He was not alone.

The boy looked over Bruce’s shoulders, studying the reports that skittered across the screen. Something or another about Harv’s boys. Jason didn’t care. The way the kid wore the red and greenish-black Robin suit, he might never have worn anything else. Alfred was standing slightly behind them, tea tray ready in hand. Jason watched him turn and leave as Batman rose and the two caped figures made their way to the Batmobile.

He went for the storage first. There, on top of a closet full of hooks that would hold Batman’s and Robin’s gadgets if they were not out on patrol, was the box that contained all of Dick’s old suit and gadgets. Jason started at the bottom left of the room, working his way to the top right methodically, but none of his things were here. Not a single tag with his name. Not a single one of the customized gizmos he had tinkered with. He had expected to be disappointed, but he felt nothing.

Next up was the Batcomputer. The retina scanner flashed red. He punched in his access codes and passwords. Access denied. _Like hell_ , Jason thought, as he tore apart the firewalls piece by piece. There was only one person he knew who was better at cracking security systems and by the time she’d notice the intrusion, he’d be long gone. Once inside the system, his fingers flew across the keyboard, navigating swiftly to the folders he knew would contain all of Robin’s records. Dick was there. So was the replacement. His name was strangely blurred, as if there was a huge grease stain on the monitor. It didn’t matter. What mattered was what was not there.

He was not there.

He ran a search through all databases. Jason Peter Todd. No results. He was a ghost. He did not exist. He never had. He was nothing.

When the frigid blue glow of the Batcomputer finally dissolved around him and his mind was pulled back into consciousness and reality, Jason was crying. The salt stung in the bruises on his face, but the heavy throbbing in his head and his right foot was even worse. Joker had broken his ankle. Again. He wondered how many times a bone could be broken, healed and broken again before it was irreparably damaged.

Not that it mattered anymore. It was not like he would be able to go back to being Robin anyway. The proof stared him right in the face.

Someone had put up the calendar again. The month was November, the picture Batman and his new Robin with a crude caricature of Jason himself, sitting by the side, looking very much like an abandoned, unwanted puppy in the rain. All along the walls, more pictures of the new dynamic duo had been taped to the tiles. He recognized many of the places – the bright lights of Grand Avenue, the glowing blue of GCPD, Crime Alley, the docks of the Diamond District, Jason’s favorite perch atop Mercy Bridge and – most painfully – the Asylum. Sometime, for some reason, Batman and the replacement had been no more than a hundred yards from where Joker was playing his sick games with Jason and neither one of them had noticed a thing. _Amateurs!_ He didn’t know what infuriated him more: the fact that he had been cast aside so easily, or the fact that he had been cast aside _by_ someone so incompetent _for_ someone so incompetent.

The décor wasn’t the only change though. He was no longer in the wheelchair. Someone had bound his wrists together with what looked suspiciously like the line from his own Batclaw and strung him up on the hook again. This time, he knew there would not be enough muscle left in his torso to go for another escape attempt. It already took all his strength and focus to stay balanced on his left leg to avoid the crippling pain of putting pressure on his broken ankle. He was in his Robin suit, now a mockery of who he had been. Another cruel joke on him. He would gladly have traded it for the patient gown. He’d rather have been naked.

As the footsteps descended behind him, Jason closed his eyes in resignation. No one was coming for him. There was no more point in struggling, let alone in conserving, observing and stalling. This was the end. He was going to die in this hole sooner or later.

“Rough night, eh, Jason?” As Joker set the box down right in front of him, Jason felt every fiber inside his body tense and freeze. _Not again_. The barely healed wounds sprang to life with a vengeance, from the holes in his feet to the wire mark around his neck. _Not again. Please not again_. His finger and toe nails had barely begun to grow back and he still could not put a single ounce of pressure on them without feeling as if someone was ramming rusty nails up his limbs. Joker seemed to have read his mind. “Oh, don’t worry”, the Clown said, “we’re not using those tools again, oh no no no. That would be far too boring.” _Yeah, heaven forbid you might not get your few hours of entertainment_ , Jason thought sourly. “We’ve already had normal tools and my tools…” He remembered that part, too, the cake that had nearly made Jason laugh himself to death. His lungs were still on fire every time he had to cough. “Today, we’re trying yours.”

The box sprang open to reveal gadgets that looked painfully familiar and yet completely out of place in this hellhole. Batarang, smoke pellet, explosive gel. In his battered mind, Jason started trying to work out how to get Joker to use the last one first. That one at least had a chance of killing him if applied incorrectly. If Batman was not going to get him out of this place, he’d have to put himself out of his misery.

To his dismay, Joker immediately reached for the Batarang. “Let’s see how sharp these things really are…” The first swing cut his left cheek from the top left to the bottom right, narrowly missing his nose before scratching his right upper lip and down from the right corner of his mouth. Jason barely winced, even though the blood soon flowed in a thick curtain of red. He had been wondering how long it would take Joker to scar his face like he had done with the rest of his body. The second swing went into the opposite direction, cutting across his nose from right to left and along his left cheek. “Hm…” Joker paced in front of him, one hand on the bloody Batarang, the other on his hip. “…still missing something… ah!” The grin on his face widened as he stepped closer. His right hand gripped Jason’s chin firmly, holding him in place as the Batarang’s razor sharp point slid meticulously slowly from the top left of Jason’s forehead across the root of his nose and all along his right cheek. Jason blinked as the blood flow started to obstruct the vision in his left eye. “There. Now you look much better.”

The smoke pellet was next. Joker played it between his hands as if he were juggling more than just a golf-ball-sized piece of plastic filled with highly reactive chemicals. “I assume the stuff in there is not toxic, see as you and bats like to toss these around like bouncy balls.” Before he even had a chance to ponder why that would possibly be of any importance, Joker had pried Jason’s jaws open once more. Having just been cut only intensified the pain. He watched Joker rip off the little ring that kept the two halves of the pellet connected with his teeth before pouring the grainy contents down Jason’s throat. In his head, Jason went through the list of all the chemicals packed into the little smoke bomb. Sadly, none of it was lethal, but that didn’t mean it would be pleasant. He could feel the cramping in his stomach as soon as the grains mixed with the acids. His head instinctively pushed forward and downward as every muscle in his digestive tract worked to wretch the now horrid, gooey mix of inedible chemicals and hydrochloric acid out of his body and onto the room’s tiles. By the time he was done throwing up, his esophagus was a burning, raw mess.

“Oops.” Joker giggled as he picked up the little spray gun filled with explosive gel. “If you ever get back to the old man, you should tell him to put a ‘do not ingest’ warning on those things.” Joker gave a long look at the calendar. When he turned his face back to Jason, the smile on his lips was dripping with satisfaction. “Then again, I doubt he’d bother to listen… you know… given that he doesn’t really care about you after all.” The Clown started circling him like a vulture. “Now, where to put this…”

“How about my head…”

That made Joker laugh. “Please, Jason, I don’t want to KILL you.” To Jason’s left, Joker started spraying a big J onto the nearby tiles. Judging from the distance and the desolate state of the wall, it would be a damn miracle if none of the shards hit him. “Not yet anyway.”

 _Not yet anyway._ The tiles came apart with a bang so sharp and clear it nearly burst his ear drums. Bits and pieces of broken ceramic flew past his head less than an inch from his face, embedding themselves all along his left sleeve from his armpit to the elbow. Joker pulled them out one by one, watching as the blood started to creep out of the cuts and underneath his suit. “I wonder…” He trailed a bony finger along the back of the suit’s collar. “How well would that pretty red suit withstand an explosion like that?”

In his head, Jason tried to run the calculations. The suit had been designed to protect him from fists, melee weapons, bullets from a long range, flying debris and other kinds of impact. It would not be tough enough to withstand point blank shots. Or directly applied explosive gel for that matter. “Probably not at all.” He tried to sound fearful and hoped Joker would buy it. Truth was death was the last thing he feared right now. It was not like he had anything left to lose.

The nozzle of the gel gun hovered above the R on his chest. _Just do it, for God’s sake. JUST DO IT!_ He didn’t want to beg. How strange that there was still enough pride left in him to not voice his desperate plea to the man who would be judge over his life and death.

“Probably not.” Joker repeated, the grin on his face stretched high and wide. “I guess I’d better come up with some new games for you then. You know… since you’re not leaving any time soon.” And just like that, Joker duct taped his mouth shut, returned the gel gun back to its box, picked up the container and disappeared up the stairs. As the trap door clicked shut and locked, the sound of the Clown’s laughter started echoing off the walls again. From the cuts in his arm and face, blood dripped slowly onto the broken wall tiles. In between them, Jason could spot a half-torn picture of Batman and Replacement Robin. Through the tape that covered his mouth, Jason’s cry of pain and frustration broke the near-silence.

***

As the days passed by, more visits followed. More crowbars. More Batarangs. More… things that looked like Batarangs, but not quite. Joker said they were the new Robin’s take on the old man’s toys. Jason had no reason to doubt it. Less water. Less food. What little he got was often either half-rotten or spiked, making him cough up huge chunks of it together with the acids in his stomach. Each day crossed out on the calendar intensified his feeling that his shoulders were nothing but searing balls of pain. They must have let him off the hook at least once in a while or else his hands would long since have died from cut blood circulation by now, but it never happened while he was conscious. Every time he woke it was the same procedure: more hanging like meat for the butcher, more laughter, more torture. He could not remember the last time he had been clean. He could not remember the last time he had moved a muscle and not been in excruciating pain.

His nights were no better. Jason could not remember the last time he had fallen asleep or unconscious and not had a nightmare. Where at first the memories of his childhood had been most common – the beatings from his father, the night he found his mother suffocated on her vomit, the many, many times he had been beaten up by random thugs twice his size, Blake Bishop – the tide had now been turned in favor of more recent dilemmas: his torture at the hands of Joker, the empty halls of the manor, a family that no longer saw him even as he stood right in front of them bleeding and bruised shouting out for help, Batman on patrol with the replacement striding by the entrance to Jason’s dungeon with no care in the world, the replacement in Jason’s room, his uniform, his life. And throughout it all, Joker’s laughter, a mocking reminder that the joke was on him.

He was no longer certain which was worse: his waking moments or his sleep.

It was December 25th when the voice pierced through the Gaussian glow of another nightmare in which Barb, Dick, Alfred, Lucius, Bruce and the replacement had been meeting up in Wayne Tower, happily chatting away about one thing or another while Jason was strung up in the middle of the room, getting worked over with a crowbar.

“Wakey, wakey!”

He winced instinctively, a subconscious reaction drilled into his body by endless hours of torture. As his eyes focused, his muffled cries of panic receded. He was still strung up. Still in this dungeon. The calendar told him it was Christmas Day. The previous picture for this month had been replaced with a caricature of Batman handing Joker a tied up Jason, wrapped up with a bow like a fancy present. Knowing that fighting back was only going to make it worse, Jason let his body go limp and decided to wait for Joker to finish his latest spiel.

“What’s wrong?” Joker asked with as much innocence in his voice as a psychopathic mass murderer could muster. “Do you think I’m going to hurt you? Why? I’m not the bad one here. Oh no, no, no, no. It’s Batman! He’s abandoned you… thrown you away like an unwanted puppy.” Those words stung more than they should have. That WAS what it felt like. Batman, Bruce, had taken in the cute puppy and when the growing pup had failed to match his expectations, he had cast it aside for a better one.

“Can I have him, daddy?” Joker was almost on his knees now. Jason knew that much even though he could barely see him through the greasy mess of hair that fell down his forehead. What he could see was a strange golden-orange glow. He wondered what sick torture device Joker had brought along this time. “Oh, please, please, please, please, please, I’ll take real good care of him."

“Anything to make you happy, princess. Just make sure people know he’s yours.” Joker was standing up straight again. _Having a conversation with himself. Perfect._ Something pulled on his restraints and before he knew what was happening, the tension that had been strung through his limbs, tearing up his shoulders, was gone. He could almost feel his body falling in slow motion, but still barely managed to land on his right side before his broken ankle would take even more damage. The muscle that would normally have softened the impact was completely gone now, leaving him rolling over in pain. Only when he was on his back did Jason finally see what Joker was holding.

A branding iron.

 _Just make sure people know he’s yours._ The words looped inside his brain. He had thought there was nothing more Joker could do to hurt him any more than he already had. He had been wrong. He had to get away. Careful not to put any pressure on his ankle, Jason rolled over and started pushing himself away with his left foot. Every movement was agony. Every inch he covered felt like a mile. “We don’t want him to end up back here, do we?” Joker asked as he followed Jason, one leisurely step at a time, before falling back into his ‘little girl on Christmas Day’ routine. “No, we don’t, daddy. I want to keep him forever!”

 _Forever._ The word consumed his every thought. Forever trapped with this madman. Forever forgotten by Bruce, by Batman, by the world. Forever abandoned like an unwanted puppy. Forever the plaything to a psychotic clown with too much time on his hand. He didn’t want this. Anything but this. “No! Don’t! No please!” The words sprang from his tongue unbidden, sudden panic tearing at what little sanity he had left. He pushed back once more only for his shoulders to bump against the stairs that marked the exit from this place. He knew he would never be strong nor fast enough to climb them. As the Joker’s grinning face sprang closer, the branding iron held firmly in his right hand, the words came spilling from his mouth. “Please no!” Joker’s left foot was on his bound hands now, crushing his wrists against the steps. He could feel a hand grasping his hair, holding his head steady on the stairs. Above his left eye, the glowing J descended with unwavering, terrifying certainty. “No!”

And then, all he could do was scream.

His flesh was on fire. Melting away under the hot metal as it scorched the skin and meat on his left cheek just beneath the eye. His eyeball felt as if someone was cooking it and he closed his eyes instinctively. The horrid smell of burnt flesh crept up his nose and onto his tongue, nearly causing his stomach to empty itself onto the floor tiles once more. As the iron was lifted, chunks of charred flesh still clung to it, but the pain lingered inside his cheek, burning its way deep into his bones.

Joker’s laugh grew louder even as Jason’s scream finally died, his throat far too raw to keep the sound going. However, it was not the pain that eventually made him curl up in a fetal position, shivering from head to toe as short, choked sobs wrecked his body. The realization sank into him slowly, seeping through every fiber of his body. Whatever else would happen to him, he would never, ever be free of this place again. Whatever miracle might occur, potentially, possibly, if all the stars aligned and whatever higher powers were out there willed it so – he would never be able to escape this hell. Every time he would look at his face, every time somebody else would look at this face, this nightmare would be laid bare for all to see. Joker had branded him, marked him, made him his own. He had stopped being Robin the day Joker had shown him the photo and now he was no longer Jason Peter Todd, either. He was nothing now. Nothing but Joker’s property.

Through the fiery pit of pain, Joker’s hand reached down, brushing over the mark almost tenderly, but even that slight touch sent more agony through a wound that he knew would never truly heal. “Don’t cry now, Jason. You look so much better now!” The voice sounded closer now, almost as if it were right next to his ear. “And if, by some miracle, I should happen to lose you, people will always know who to return you to. It’s a win-win for the new dynamic duo!” Jason barely winced as Joker pushed his head down onto the steps again. All he could feel was the fire in his face, burning its way into his mind and soul. The footsteps slowly ascended, disappeared. The pain did not.

In the dark inferno of his prison, Jason cried.


	5. Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His fire has died, but the embers of anger are still glowing. From the ashes of Robin and Jason, a Knight rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: graphic violence, physical and psychological torture, mutilation, referenced non-consensual drug abuse, swearing, original character deaths/murder  
> Side notes: Inspired by the Arkham Knight Genesis comics in which Joker dressed up some of his thugs in Batman and Robin costumes before sending them to beat up Jason.

The first thing Jason noticed after finally waking up again was that he could no longer move. Restricted as his body had been before by being tied to the wheelchair or the hook, at least he had always had some room to wriggle his feet or hands or his head. This was different. He could still feel his wrists, tied up in the line of his Batclaw, but no matter how hard he tried to move even one finger, his limbs would not budge. What exactly had happened to him?

He remembered being strung up on the meat hook. He remembered Joker talking to himself as if he were a little girl talking to her daddy. It had been Christmas Day. He remembered falling down onto the floor. He remembered the letter J, golden and orange-

The wound sprung to life in an instant, burning hot as lava against the cold, dank air of his dungeon. He had to get it off. He had to claw it out. His ice-cold fingers refused to move even by a hair’s width. He tried to scrape the cheek against the broken, dirty tiles on the floor, but his head would not move. As the realization of the futility of his struggles seeped in, his stomach turned, disgust forcing a breakfast he hadn’t had up his throat and out his half-open mouth onto the floor tiles.

On the wall, the calendar had been flipped. The year was 2012 now. He must have been awake earlier then, even if he did not remember, because it had been a little more than a week since Christmas Day. In the picture, a caricature of Jason was sitting by Joker’s heel, with Batman giving a thumbs up in approval.

It was the sound of flowing water that drew his attention away from the calendar. His eyes, which were the only thing apart from his lips that he could still move at all, searched frantically for the source of the sound. Running water. Splashes on tiles. There was a closed drain on the floor right in front of him, but that was not where the sound seemed to come from. If he had to guess, it came from somewhere behind him.

His search concluded when he saw the water starting to pool around him. Inch by inch, the icy, murky liquid rose closed in on his curled up body. He could feel it seep through his bandages and the cast around his ankle. Thousands of pins and needles assaulted his skin as he was slowly submerged. It made not being able to move even worse. Gotham was surrounded by water. Up until Bruce had taken him in, no one had bothered to teach Jason how to swim and so he had nearly drowned often enough in his life to know that this was not how he wanted to go and yet, he was strangely at peace with his imminent demise.

Unfortunately, the flow of water stopped just as he liquid rose to the corner of his mouth. It was barely enough to submerge the burn and part of his left eye, but not enough to drown. He felt disappointed. Maybe he would die of hypothermia then. The water was slowly cooling down his already cold body. Hypothermia wouldn’t be too bad. He had seen some rough winters, back when he had been living on the streets of Gotham. He knew that it would be painful at first, pins and needles all over his skin, but eventually his body would just shut down. _Like going to sleep._ It certainly wasn’t the worst way to go.

It was the sound of heavy footsteps splashing through the shallow pool that took that hope away from him. Normally, he would have wondered what Joker would do to him this time, only it no longer mattered. He was Joker’s property now, anyway. Whatever the Clown was going to do to him would happen. Even if he got out, he would end up back here. _Yeah, just close your eyes and die already, Jason_ , the voice from the darkest corners of his mind whispered.

Except he couldn’t close them and what he saw made his heart jump into his throat. Slowly, two black, armored boots stepped in front of his face. He recognized the design. Behind the boots, a jet black cape almost touched the floor.

_Batman?_

What the hell was he doing here? He had a new Robin. Why would he care? Was this really happening? Maybe he was still dreaming. _Yeah, that’s it. Definitely dreaming_. He tried to look upwards, to catch a glimpse of more than the boots, but his body was still stuck, unmoving. Until one of the boots kicked him hard in the stomach. The vest absorbed most of the blow, but Joker’s last crowbar session had left him with enough bruised ribs to cause stinging pain to radiate through his body now. Another boot came down on his hand and broke one of his fingers, followed by a kick to his chin that made him bite his tongue and swallow thick gulps of blood, and a brutal stomp onto his damaged ankle. With every hit the J in his cheek seared more and more. Of course Batman had not come to _save_ him.

By the time the kicking stopped, Jason had coughed up enough blood to turn the water in front of his face from sickly brown to red. Heavy steps splashed through the water and eventually stopped on the stairs. Then, all hell broke loose.

He could see arcs of blue skitter across the surface as the electricity danced through the water and into his broken body. Thousands of volts coursed through his skin, his flesh, but still his muscles refused to budge. For a few agonizing moments, the pain intensified to the point where he could feel the darkness of his slipping consciousness claim his senses, before his nerves overloaded and shut down. He felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except for the burning J on his cheek. As his mind slipped away, Jason prayed that he was going for good this time.

***

Jason woke to the feeling of a soft cloth dabbing away gently at a nasty cut on his forehead. He tried to move, but his body still would not obey. From what he could tell, he was sitting against a wall, shoulders hunched forward, head hanging low. He was still in the suit. He was still in the dungeon. Or was he here _again_? Had he only imagined that last bit with Batman or had that really happened? It was hard to tell. The ring finger on his left hand did feel broken. So did a couple of other bones in his body. His ankle was a fresh new mess of pain. Maybe it really had happened.

The cloth dipped into the scar on his left cheek and his face exploded with searing agony. He could hear his scream echo off the walls, like the wailing of a dying animal. As Joker opened his Robin vest and cleaned the rest of his wounds, the harsh cry turned to choked sobs, then whimpering. There was something strangely comforting about not getting the crap beaten out of him for a change, even if the gesture did come from Joker. In some faint little corner of his mind, he was steeling himself for the inevitable mood whiplash and abuse to come.

Except it never did.

For once, nothing bad happened. No crowbars, no hammers, pliers, batarangs, cattle prods, tasers or poisoned cakes. It felt surreal. Maybe this was a dream?

The first thing he regained control of were his eye lids. They moved slower than a turtle on crutches, but eventually, finally, they obeyed his commands and lifted slowly. Joker was removing his right boot, setting the broken ankle and putting fresh, clean bandages on it. The boot came back on slowly and Joker ditched the bloodied cloth into a nearby bucket full of equally bloodied water. “Now, be a good boy, finish your dinner and be in bed by nine.” Joker rose slowly and ran a gloved hand through Jason’s tousled hair. _Definitely dreaming_. “Sweet dreams, little Todders.”

He waited until he heard the tell-tale thud, click and screech before he let his gaze wander across the room. The walls were covered in pictures of Batman and the replacement now, to the point where he could not see a single unspoiled tile anymore. Every once in a while, a newspaper clipping broke the monotony. He couldn’t read any of the fine print, but the headlines were more than enough for him already. _Robin Saves Mayor. Dynamic Duo Foils Museum Heist. Mystery Vigilante Rescues Kidnapped Family._ _The Dark Knight – Gotham’s Savior?_ From the deepest, darkest pit of his soul, Jason felt pure, distilled rage and disgust rise through the haze of pain that surrounded his body. _Savior… savior, my ass!_ He could feel the bile coming up in his throat. _Bruce is no savior. He is no hero. What kind of savior abandons his ally, his son to the whims of a madman? He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve ANY of it!_

The next thing he gained control of was his right fist. Through the tears of rage welling up in his eyes, his gaze fell on the gloved fingers that finally curled up and stretched out at his bidding. Every inch was agony, every move felt like hours of exercise, but at least his fingers moved again. Right next to his hand, a bowl of soup had been left on a simple, rectangular tray and his stomach lurched at the sight of the meal. His hand crept to the right slowly, only to flinch back as it connected with the scorching hot metal bowl. His wrist turned slowly and he could feel the deteriorated muscles in his arms strain painfully as his elbow slowly lifted. _Almost_ , the dark voice whispered in his head. _Only the shoulder left. Only the shoulder._

His joints were on fire, but he could not have cared less. He needed to move this arm. Jason’s eyes narrowed, his tongue pressing against the top of his mouth as he bit back the cries of pain that tried to escape his bloodied mouth. His fingers curled around the rim of the bowl slowly, causing the painfully familiar sensation of burnt skin to radiate through his fingers and palm, but he barely felt it. This was nothing against the mark on his cheek. No pain would ever compare to that. He could feel the muscles tremble with the strain as he lifted the bowl slowly. It must have weighed no more than a pound, judging from the size of it, but it felt like a sack of cement. He didn’t know what infuriated him more. His own weakness or the newspaper clippings on the wall. Inch by inch, the bowl rose closer to his lips. _Almost._ The smells that suddenly wafted up his nose nearly made his brain short-circuit. How long had it been since he had had proper food? How long had it been since he had had something so simple and yet so good? He couldn’t even place the smells. He recognized their pattern, their texture, but his mind was blank. He would not have been able to spell his own name to save his life, much less put a name on those things.

The bowl hit the newspaper article discussing Gotham’s savior with a loud metallic thud and left it covered in a brownish-yellow paste that fittingly looked a surprising lot like vomit once it started soaking up the ink. Jason watched the grimy mess slide down the wall as his stomach cried out in protest of the slanderous waste of food. There was no savior. Jason had learned that lesson the hard way and he would be damned if he would have to look at that fucking piece of paper for the rest of... of what exactly? This day? This week? This month? His life? What exactly did he think he was doing? He just wasted a perfectly good bowl of stew. Tears of frustration started pushing into his eyes as he balled his fingers into a fist once more. His arm felt heavy again, tired from the effort of this one throw. He glanced longingly at the unused spoon that was lying on the right side of the tray, all lonely without a dish to go with. _Next time_ , the voice whispered as he slipped into darkness. _Next time…_

***

This time, he did not dream of beatings, crowbars, cattle prods or hot irons for a change. This time, he dreamt of a bowl of soup that shattered into a thousand pieces each time he tried to touch it, only to reappear and shatter again. Strangely enough, his dream self did not seem to have learned any lessons from this exercise in futility. Wasn’t that the definition of crazy? Doing the same stupid thing over and over again, expecting different results?

When he woke up, the bowl was right beside him. He was still sitting against the wall, his eyes fixated on the spot where the spilled soup had destroyed the newspaper page. Now the only thing left of it was part of the headline: _Knight – Gotham’s Savior?_ He wondered if there was anything worth saving in Gotham. Come to think of it, this godforsaken city was a crime-riddled shithole that should have been sunk into the ocean years ago. Sadly, it was also the only place he had ever called home.

His eyes wandered back to the bowl and his stomach roared at the sight of the broth inside. Unfortunately, his fingers refused to obey this time.

“Hungry, kiddo?” Joker stepped out of the shadows to Jason’s right as if he had been one with the darkness. The thought that the creepy clown had been silently watching from the sidelines for God knew how long made his skin crawl. A tinge of jealousy spiked inside him as he watched Joker dip his finger into the stew and lick it clean. “Can’t say I blame you. Carlo outdid himself this time. This stuff tastes amazing!” _Ignore the bully_. Jason closed his eyes and hoped that it would be over soon. He hadn’t planned to starve to death, but he would not beg. “You know, all you have to say is ‘May I please have some, sir’?”

“You know all I want you to do is SHUT THE FUCK UP?” He didn’t know where that rage had come from, but it was the first good feeling he had had all day. As Joker laughed and laughed until he was clutching his flank in agony, he focused on the spoiled newspaper once more. _Gotham_ _’s savior_. They could all go to hell.

At last, Joker’s laughter stopped. How long it had gone on, Jason could not tell. He watched silently as the Clown crept closer until they were face to face with less than a foot between them. Joker’s left hand reached for the bowl of soup and brought it right in front of Jason’s lips. For once, Jason found his inability to move a blessing. It spared him the humiliation of trying to reach out for the hot food his body so desperately craved. Joker’s right hand reached out to grip the left side of his face, sending fresh pain through the burn. “Do you know why I didn’t stop when you begged me so desperately not to enhance that hideous face of yours?” Jason’s body froze. As his eyes darted between the Clown’s mad grin and the scorching hot bowl of soup in his hand, the realization of what was about to happen sank into every fiber of his body. The pain, the disgust and the sickening feeling of being absolutely helpless and abandoned came back with a vengeance and killed whatever bravado his tongue had wanted to offer. The mad glint in Joker’s eyes proved that his panic had not gone unnoticed. “You didn’t even have the good manners to call me ‘sir’.”

It all happened too quickly for his brain to process. The gloved hand forcing his head forward, exposing his neck. The feeling of his skin being scorched as the hot liquid splashed on his neck and started running down his spine. His suit had become a trap. As much as he wanted to claw the leathery fabric off himself, all Jason could do as the skin on his back was destroyed was scream until his throat was raw. Joker pushed him back into the wall, putting even more pressure on the second degree burn that now covered a good chunk of Jason’s back. “Why don’t you let that _sink in_ a little?” He watched through tears of pain as Joker put the empty bowl on the tray and removed the silverware from the room.

***

In his dream, he was up on the stairs again, dragging his broken body to the surface of the abandoned asylum wing. He was counting the steps in hushed whispers as he went along. When he reached the exit, the rain was falling like an icy curtain of black. He limped across the yard, careful not to put any pressure on his right ankle. The Batmobile was parked in front of the Asylum’s main entrance, as if this was where it belonged and where it had always been. He could feel the hint of a smile curve his lips as he ran his hand along the edge of the hood before his good leg gave out and he collapsed against the side of the car. To his right, the bat symbol shone brightly on the hubcap of the front left tire.

“Well done, Robin.” The voice was distant, but unmistakably Bruce’s. It seemed to come from the entrance of the Asylum and it appeared to be getting closer, but everything in Jason’s body felt heavy as lead. He could not even move. “You truly are an improvement over your predecessor.”

“You mean that snot-faced little loser you picked up all those years back? What’s his face again?”

“Who cares. He was a whiner. He did not deserve the suit nor the name.”

His body froze over in an instant. Every word hurt. Suddenly, he didn’t want the voice to come any closer. Suddenly, he no longer wanted to be hunched by the Batmobile. He wanted to be anywhere but here. As the steps approached, Jason’s mind tried desperately to make his limbs move, but none of his muscles obeyed. And then, the two vigilantes were in front of him.

He looked up to see Bruce’s trademark scowl bearing down on him, fists clenched, every muscle in his body tense. Was this what thugs were seeing after Batman had beaten them into a pulp? He didn’t know what miracle he owed the surprise to, but when Jason opened his mouth, he could hear the words roll off his tongue. “Batman… please-”

The boot hit him straight across the left side of his face, kicking dirt and gravel into his burning scar and two teeth out of their gums. Jason spit them out with a ball of blood and coughed as he inhaled a mouthful of dirt. “Always whining.” A strong, gloved hand reached into his matted hair and pulled him up sharply. He caught a glimpse of the replacement breaking out the staff before the metal hit him hard in the stomach. As a flurry of fists and boots descended on him, all Jason could do was curl up in a ball and pray for it to be over soon. “Please… Bruce…”

“Don’t call me that!” Another kick in the face, another tooth loose. The fists grabbed him by the throat now, choking him slowly as Batman was holding him up into the air. The gunmetal blue eyes peeking out from beneath the cowl were filled with rage and disgust. “You have no right to call me that. You are nothing but an incompetent, whiny, bad-tempered, disappointing brat.” This time the staff hit his right ankle, sending a piercing scream into the silent night air around the asylum. He was faintly aware of the replacement chuckling behind him.

“Wow, you really are a whiner. It’s just a broken ankle, you little cry baby.”

As his back hit the side of the Batmobile and the wind was knocked from his lungs, the words echoed in his skull. _Nothing but an incompetent, whiny, bad-tempered, disappointing brat._ “You have no place in my house, my home, my family.” Fear gripped him as Batman reached for his collar and started dragging him back the way he had come. Back to the building he knew contained his prison and the mad, psychotic clown waiting to torture him. “If I have one regret in my life, it is taking you in and wasting my time on you.” He could feel the floor beneath his feet change from dirt and gravel to solid tiles, from horizontal surfaces to stairs. The air around him grew colder with every step. He tried to struggle as Batman lifted him up once more while the replacement moved the heavy furniture and opened the trap door. Jason wanted to struggle, to plead, but his body still refused to obey him. All he could do was look on helplessly as Batman stared at him, his eyes full of rage, disgust and disappointment. “Take a look in the mirror, Jason. This is where you belong.”

For all of a second his body was floating, light as a feather, before his back hit the stairs hard. He tumbled and fell down the steps, every bone in his body snapping one by one. He landed hard on the broken tiles at the bottom, the J on his cheek smoldering hot against the cold floor.

All around him Joker was laughing.

As he rolled over and tried to find a spot to lie or sit on that did not scream ‘broken bone’, Jason caught a full glimpse of the replacement’s staff. His eyes widened in horror as he recognized the golden glowing shape at the end of the stick. The searing pain swelled in his left cheek once more, radiating through his face all the way down his burnt neck and back.

“I think he still hasn’t gotten the memo,” the replacement quipped as he handed the staff with the burning J over to Batman. “Perhaps you should put one on the other cheek, too.” _No. No, no, no, don’t, please don’t_. Panic rose inside him. Anything but that.

“Good idea, Robin.”

All he could do was cower in fear as the towering figure in black approached him slowly, branding iron in his hand, his eyes filled with distilled hatred and disgust. “Please don’t! Please, no!” The sound of descending steps echoed down the stairs. Through a haze of fear and pain, Jason could see him, waiting just behind the dynamic duo.

_Do you know why I didn’t stop?_

All of a sudden, Joker’s words were back in his head, loud and clear and painfully obvious. He knew what he had to do. _Just swallow your goddamn pride and say it, you coward!_ The voice cut clear through Jason’s petrified mind. _If it weren’t for Batman’s misguided sense of honor and morality that he passed onto you, you would not be in this mess, so just say it!_ The burning iron was almost upon him. He could already feel the skin in his mostly untarnished right cheek tear in agony. “Please don’t… _sir…_ please.”

He watched, too scared to move or even talk as Joker walked up to Batman and punched him right in the face. The branding iron fell to the ground in front of him, inches away from his cheek. He could feel the heat emanating from it and shuddered, praying for the damn thing to not come any closer. “Thank you for returning him, Bats. “ Joker was right in between the two of them now. “I promise I’ll make sure he won’t get lost again.”

“Good.” Batman sounded positively appalled, as if this entire charade had been nothing but a waste of his time. He watched as the bat and the boy wonder disappeared up the stairs. Was it finally over? He hoped it would be over now. _Grow a spine, you useless coward_ , the voice whispered. _He is not getting off the hook that easily!_

“See, I told you they would know who to return you to.” Joker’s voice crawled into his ears. He sounded almost… sad? “Just look at what they did to you. Poor puppy.”

He lay perfectly still as Joker kicked the iron away and bent down to pat Jason’s hair like a little girl would pat her dog after he returned his toy. What little part of him was still Jason felt nothing but shame at having fallen so low. The rest of him thought of only one thing: how he would kill both Joker and Batman.

***

He was sliding back out of another nightmare in which Batman and the replacement were hunting him through the back alleys of the Coventry, his own, scarred face with the glaring red J on it plastered on every poster and billboard in the city, when he noticed that something was wrong. He was lying face down. _That’s new_ , the dark voice whispered in his head, almost amused. He had been strung up arms up, strung up upside down, chained to a chair, chained up on the floor, sitting on the floor, kneeling and lying on his back before, but he had never lain face down. The feeling was strange and scary at once. The next thing he noticed was that he was half-naked. His pants were still on, _thank God_ , but his vest, shirt, gauntlets and boots were gone. The table he was lying on was cold, harsh, unforgiving metal. He knew it was a table because his wrists and ankles had been tied to the legs. That was by far the most alarming part of the entire situation.

 _At least_ , he thought as his hands and left foot tore at the restraints, _I can move my limbs again_. _Three of them anyway_. His right ankle was still a bruised mess. He wondered if it would ever be anything but. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the harsh, glaring light that shone above his head, the remaining pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The picture- and newspaper-covered walls still laughed at him, a persistent background that he could not quite read in detail, but could not ignore either. Footsteps descended down the stairs, firm and harsh steps that definitely did not match Joker’s pace. When the figure was finally in his field of vision, every muscle in his body tensed up. _The replacement…_

The kid’s vest and utility belt were right in front of him now. Jason tried to crane his head to get a look at his face, only to scream out as something on the right side of his face kept him glued to the desk by his very skin. He watched as the boy reached into one of the pouches on his belt, removed a role of duct tape and placed one stripe from the table top above his head all the way over his eye and down past his jaw onto the table top again. A second stripe soon followed, covering the corner of his mouth and the still stinging burn mark. This was going to get very ugly, but whatever he was going to do to him, Jason was resolved not to give him the satisfaction of screaming.

The first drop fell onto his neck, just to the left of the spine, and Jason bit down hard on his lower lip to stifle the cry that wanted to break out. _Acid._ He wasn’t entirely sure what kind of acid, but the sizzling sensation of something etching into his skin and the top layer of his flesh left very little room for guessing. At least it wasn’t more fire. More drops fell along the side of his left shoulder and onto his upper arm, making him jerk the limb reflexively. The line from the Batclaw dug deep into his wrists. Suddenly, a leather-gloved hand grabbed his right hand and dropped more acid right onto his palm. There was more than one person in this room? Was Batman here to torture him, too?

His two captors started working in tandem now, pouring little drops of acid onto his shoulder blades and all along his back. The spots that had already been burnt or cut open by knives and crowbars during his previous torture were the worst, but Jason gritted his teeth against the pain. He was not going to give anyone the satisfaction of crying or screaming. As the final drops landed on the soles of his feet, it took every ounce of his strength and concentration not to flail his right foot and damage his ankle even further. He wondered what would be in store for him next until he felt the sting in his skin as he was hosed down with ice cold water. When the sound of a buzzing taser reached his ear, he was not surprised. The volts rushed through his body in the blink of an eye, with both the water and the metal table facilitating the current’s journey. His limbs jerked instinctively. He heard the cracking sound of his ankle snapping once more, and felt the blood spring fresh from his cheeks and hairline as his head arched off the table, tearing the duct tape and his skin in the process. And yet, a hint of a smile crossed his lips as he felt his mind fading to black. He had not cried. He had not failed.

***

Over the next couple of weeks, the table became his new best friend. At least he assumed it was weeks. It was getting increasingly harder to tell apart reality and dreams. Both of them featured angry Bats and Robins, clown laughter and sheer infinite torture. Also, someone had come up with the splendid idea of sprinkling salt into his wounds. Literally. And the idea of adding a mirror to what used to be a perfectly boring ceiling with a couple of meat hooks hanging from it. The wounds and scars on his torso were bad, but it was the angry red J on his cheek that made him look anywhere but up whenever he could. It should have healed a lot better by now, judging from the progress of his ankle, he knew that much. Joker seemed to know it, too, and just like Batman and the replacement were happy to break his ankle every couple of weeks, Joker enjoyed burning his cheek all over again every once in a while, for reasons only a mad clown would know, and no amount of pleading and begging could stop the scorching metal from descending. Except sometimes, increasingly often now, the ruthless voice inside him broke through and uttered that magic word. _Sir_. The one time he had wondered why, the answer had been equally as simple as infuriating. _Because someone has to keep your worthless ass alive_.

He knew something was wrong when he found himself on the floor. The dirty, bloodied floor. Part of him was aware that there was a bright side to it: at least his shoulders were no longer in constant agony. On the not so bright side, lying on the floor half-naked for God knew how many days had not done any good to all those wounds that desperately needed a clean environment to heal properly. The tell-tale throbbing underneath several patches of skin told him that he was in for some nasty complications and a lot more scars.

_Fuck the scars._

The angry voice that had once been nothing but a side note, a rarely heard instigator of trouble, had now become his constant companion. Every time he felt like he was finally ready to roll over and die, that dark, sadistic, self-despising part of him just wouldn’t quit. Every time he woke up to Batman and the replacement Robin beating and kicking the crap out of him, it was that part of him that simply refused to close his eyes and give up.

It was yet another one of those days. He couldn’t tell what time or date it was. Nobody had bothered to update the calendar for a couple of weeks at least. He could tell it was weeks, not only because his right ankle was starting to feel almost normal again, but because he had torn up at least two dozen more newspapers proudly proclaiming Gotham’s saviors to be the best thing since sliced bread. They were like weeds, like heads of a hydra. Every time he tore one down, at least one or two more popped up.

The trap door at the top of the stairs opened with a heavy creaking sound. Whereas Joker’s laughter had become a constant background noise in his tortured head, this sound was still fresh and awful enough to make him cringe. As the two caped figures descended down the stairs, Jason clenched his fists in anticipation. This was the first time in a long while that he might be able to move freely during one of those visits. It was time for payback.

His tormentors were on him in a second. The first kick hit him in the face, the second in the ribs. _Let them think they are winning._ His hands struggled against the line that bound him. Bruce had taught him how to escape from any possible restraining knot a long time ago. Now he was going to make him regret it. At last, endless hours of hunger paid off. Whoever had put these ropes on him had clearly not considered the constant loss of meat and muscle. When he finally got his right hand free, his first hit was a good punch to the replacement’s crotch. He watched the two vigilantes exchange confused glances. Clearly, neither of them had expected him to be able to free himself. He was going to make sure it was the last mistake they would ever make.

He started with the replacement, grabbing the kid by his utility belt and using his still bound feet as a lever to trip him over. Next was the Bat. He took the first hit to the jaw, but blocked the kick to the stomach. The empty length of rope that had been wrapped around his wrist made for a perfect snare. Once they were both down, he set to freeing his ankles. The knot that had tied them together was even easier than the one around his wrists. He launched himself forward with his left foot, knocking straight into the man he had once called his mentor, his father. The man who had abandoned him to this hell of torture and humiliation. His hands wrapped around the lantern jaw and the bat-eared backhead almost instinctively. He had seen this happen on the street often enough. He had practiced more than enough choke holds that involved this grip.

_Time to die, old man!_

The bone snapped with a sickening crunch. To his left, the replacement immediately lost what little footing he had regained and staggered backwards. The boy looked scared out of his mind. _Good…_ He grabbed him by the cape as he tried to get away and tugged sharply. Moments later, his hand met the boy’s utility belt and rolled him over until Jason was right behind him. The kid was pleading for his life as cold, scarred hands moved in for the kill. This time, the crunching sound barely registered in his brain. He entangled himself from the dead body and looked at his handiwork. The two bodies were lying in front of him, unmoving, their frozen faces masks of terror. _What have I—The RIGHT thing_ , the voice interrupted. Just for once, he had actually done the right thing.

From the darkness of the stairs, Joker’s laughter echoed down into the room. “All hail Jason Todd! The wicked Bat is dead!” His breath was coming in short, strained puffs and every muscle in his body screamed in agony. Once upon a time, this would not even have counted as half a warm-up. Now it felt like the fight of his life. “You know, I’m starting to think every crook in this city should start sending Bats ‘thank you’ cards for abandoning you. You’re more effective at this crime-fighting gig than he ever was.” With deft, boney hands, Joker removed the cowl and mask from their respective owners. Underneath, the clown make-up shone in vibrant white and red. “Such brutality!” Joker was practically swooning. “I am so proud of you, Todders.”

He did not know where Joker had gotten the revolver or when he had started pointing it at him, but the harsh metal was staring him right in the face. “You would make a great Knight of your own.”

 _A mad knight born in an asylum. The Arkham Knight_. Jason instantly hated the idea. _Then, again, Jason is no longer in charge here…_ At least one good thing was going to come out of this tragedy. _Me._

The gun went off with a deafening bang. Instead of blasting his skull into hundreds of bits and pieces, it sent a single feathered round into the curve of his elbow. _A tranquilizer dart?_ He removed the silvery-white projectile carefully. Only then did he notice the many holes in his skin, little marks left by dozens of needles. The last time he had seen an arm like that was when his mother had overdosed. What kind of horrible drugs had Joker been pumping into him all this time? As his mind slowly faded into blackness, Joker’s laugh grew stronger.


	6. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most important survival item one can have is the will to survive. The Arkham Knight wants to survive, for revenge. What kind of super villain would think it would take nothing more than a bullet to stop him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: graphic violence, physical and psychological torture, mutilation, referenced non-consensual drug abuse, references to past sexual abuse, nudity, near-death, swearing, original character deaths/murder  
> Side notes: Partially inspired by Robin’s suit in the 2016 Batman vs. Superman movie. Did a lot of research on container ships and containers for this one to make sure the circumstances of Jason’s escape were at least somewhat believable.

„What’s your name?”

“My name is Jason Peter Todd, sir.”

“How old are you, Jason?”

“Sixteen, sir.”

“Very good. And what is your favorite color?”

“Red.”

“Manners!” The hot iron sizzled against his skin, leaving a dime-sized burn mark on the sole of his left foot. Jason howled in agony. “Red, _sir_!”

“Better.”

_How long have we been playing this game now? How much longer until we stop?_

_Until you learn to use that pea-sized brain of yours._ He wiped Jason’s hesitation out of his mind. Jason was a whiner. He was not. It had taken long enough for the kid to see the light, to understand that Joker would never tire of this game, at least not until he got his hands on oh-so-perfect Robin 1.0 / Nightwing or still-much-better Robin 3.0 or mini-Bats-in-heels Batgirl. Jason Todd had been nothing but the middle child in a horrible, dysfunctional family full of caped freaks. He would rather be caught dead than go back to that lie, that illusion of justice and safety. There was only one way to achieve justice in this city, only one way to be safe, ever. That’s what Batman had never understood. He had, though, and if he had to strike a deal with the devil in order to get out of this dungeon and make it happen, then so be it. This was all his life had ever been: desperate measures born out of desperate times, executed by a whiny brat with no spine. But not anymore. _He_ would do it right. And _he_ would win.

“Do you know what day it is, Jason?” Joker’s voice was practically singing. His mind fumbled for relevant dates. Was it late enough to be August 16th? He doubted it. “May… 21st… sir?” It came out as more of a question than an answer, but at the very least he had followed protocol. It was the difference between a burnt hand or a simple punch in the face. “Very good, Jason. And you remember what day May 21st is, right?”

“Of course, sir.” Now, how was he going to phrase this in a way that would satisfy Joker’s urge to gloat while still maintaining his own dignity? “The day I tried to kill you, sir.”

That made Joker laugh. He watched the Clown stab the iron onto the table right next to his hand and breathed a quick sigh of relief. Joker had been trying to prove his point that palms and soles were the most heat-sensitive parts of the human body for almost three weeks now. He disagreed and his cheek lit up in flames just thinking about it, but he would have been damned if he would voice those thoughts out loud. He wasn’t stupid. That had been Jason’s and Robin’s job.

“It will be August soon, though,” Joker finally continued. “Tell me: how do bats and birds celebrate their birthdays?”

He remembered the first time Joker had asked him that question. It had been almost a year ago, back when Jason had still been Robin or – at the very least – when he had still believed himself to be Robin. Back then he had refused to give the Clown the truth. All it had gotten him was a mouthful of Joker Venom cake, courtesy of Sweet Tooth. He was not going to put his lungs through that again.

“We used to get together and trash cheap movies, sir.” The memory was so distant now, so faded. Once upon a time, it would have filled him with warmth and happiness. Now it offered nothing but rage and betrayal. Bruce, Dick, Barbara… they had played the caring family really well, but they were all liars. It was all an act.

“And who exactly is ‘we’?”

 _He wants their names—Of course he does_. It didn’t surprise him. It didn’t surprise Jason either. What they did not agree on was how to proceed. What better revenge would there be, than to have the Clown dismantle everything Bruce loved? After all, he had ruined his life, too. “Batman…” _Bruce is mine!_ Come hell or high water, he would be there for the end. Joker was welcome to torture Bruce, to make him feel the same panic and despair that he had had to endure, but in the end it would be him watching Bruce die. He would do it. No one else. _What does it matter, as long as he dies_ , Jason protested, but he was having none of it. “Batman… Nightwing and Batgirl, sir.”

Joker’s smile faded slowly. He was in trouble now. _Thank you, Jason_. The hot iron came down harsh on his left palm twice. “And who exactly are Nightwing and Batgirl?”

 _No! Don’t you dare!_ Jason. Still-refusing-to-make-the-necessary-sacrifices Jason… For a kid who had been longing for death for the last six months he was quite persistent. _They deserve to die…_

“Their names… Tell me…” All the smugness was gone from Joker’s voice. This was not the time to be coy. The Clown’s patience was not endless. Joker wanted names, he would give him names.

“Di-“ the sound choked in his throat.

“Di?” Joker mockingly echoed. He opened his mouth again, but not a single sound was escaping his lips. He watched Joker’s face twist into a quick, angry scowl, before stretching back into his trademark grin. “Well, I guess I will have to jumpstart your memory.” Joker turned the iron in his hand and Jason’s eyes widened in fear. He did not even have time for a single word before the J came down on his cheek again. The crowbar to his ankle afterwards barely registered amidst the pain. “Ever the valiant Knight, still protecting the brave and noble vigilantes of Gotham…” Joker brought the J next to his good cheek, close enough to make his skin heat up uncomfortably. “Next time, I will have names.”

 _Thank you, Jason, you fucking bastard!_ As the lights went out one by one, leaving him strapped to his friend the metal table in the middle of this cold cell, rage burned darkly inside him. This could have been his chance. Now he had to wait another Lord Almighty knew how many weeks until Joker would return and give him another go. As the cold started to seep into his bones, the Knight steeled himself for whatever torturous, potentially drug-enhanced visits were to come his way.

His first visitor arrived a few hours after Joker had left. The lights were still out, but whoever it was could see just fine. He felt them set his broken ankle and cut the restraints that had been holding him on the table, replacing them with a heavy iron collar around his neck that was fixed to the ceiling with a heavy chain. He tried to take a swing at his captor, but only earned a baseball bat to the stomach in return. While he slowly recovered, the table was folded up and removed from the room. The trap door clicked shut. It would be his last human contact for more than a week. Determined to conserve his strength, the Knight curled up in a corner and willed his mind to sleep.

In his dreams, Bruce had arrived at Blüdhaven PD to find a box containing several bits and pieces that had once been part of Dick Grayson – flayed fingers, broken toes, an ear – together with a video that showed their removal. Joker’s laughter echoed through the police station as if he were right around the corner. Next had been a call to GCPD, where Jim Gordon had been mailed a set of pictures showing Batgirl being unmasked, stripped half-naked and branded with a J right between her breasts. Gordon had punched Batman straight in the face and would probably have done much worse if his subordinates had not been there to stop him. He had watched Bruce storm out of GCPD, contacting Alfred and Lucius to update them on the latest events and tell them to be extra-paranoid. Alfred had pointed out that Joker seemed to be going only after Batman’s masked allies – first Jason, then Nightwing and Barbara – and that Robin was likely to be next in line. Batman had told him to never mind Jason – Joker would pay for what he had done to Barbara and Dick and nobody was going to lay a single finger on Robin as long as he was still drawing breath. When he finally woke up, he had both tears in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. It was the first smile in a long time.

His next visitor barely made it all the way down the stairs. He could hear the sound of metal being set on tiles, before the footsteps ascended again and the trap door clicked shut. Feeling his way forward carefully in the darkness he barely made it to the object before the chain that bound him went taut. It was a bowl of water with a tiny bit of moldy bread. He finished both immediately, before anyone would have a chance to take the food away again. He was familiar with Joker’s rationing plans by now. Too little to live, to much too die. Soon the boredom had him curl up in the corner again. It wasn’t the worst kind of torture Joker had ever inflicted on him.

Days turned into weeks and still no sign of the Joker. If not for the semi-regular food provisions left behind in utter darkness, he might have thought Joker had abandoned him as well. He would not have been the first. He would probably not be the last. As his ankle slowly healed and the collagen built up in his cheek to repair the burn again, the Knight waited in the black pit he was confined to. Alone with the darkness and Joker’s persistent laugh in the background, all he could do was think of how he was going to murder the man that had caused him to end up in this dungeon.

Bruce Wayne. Batman.

He would not simply be able to walk up to him and shoot him, that much was for sure. Jason would have tried and Jason would have ended up back in this shithole or locked up in some cozy room in Wayne Manor with the butler kissing his ass and Bruce trying to brainwash him into believing he actually cared and Jason was wrong. A prison by any other name was still a prison. Even a cage made of gold and diamonds remained a cage. And he was never ever going to let anyone cage him again.

No, bullets were too quick, too merciful for what that man had done to him. Batman would suffer, just like he had suffered. He would chip away at the man, the myth that was Batman, until there was nothing left but a broken, tortured shell. And then, when he had reduced him to a cowering, pleading mess, begging with the Knight’s boot on his neck, then he would kill him. Slowly. It was going to be beautiful.

He would need help, of course. As much as he hated the thought, he’d have to work with a few other people at least. He would need distractions, cannon fodder to throw at Batman and his helpers to keep them busy. He would need money – Bruce’s most unfair advantage – and lots of it, too. And he would need a plan. But first, he would need Joker.

The Clown would be next on his list, of course. He doubted there was any way he could torture Joker, make him feel as much pain and despair as he had gone through. The man was a psychopath after all, with no significant emotional attachment to anybody and extreme sado-masochistic tendencies. If he were to torture him, he’d probably simply laugh it off. He would kill him, though. Slowly. Painfully.

Right now, though, he needed Joker. The days when his body would have been strong enough to escape this place without Joker’s aid were long gone. He’d have to play along, at least a little while. Wait for his chance to strike, to escape. Next time Joker would question him, he’d tell him everything he wanted to hear, with the exception of Bruce’s name. He doubted Joker cared anyway, but Batman belonged to him, the Arkham Knight, and no one else.

As if someone had read his mind, his next meal came accompanied with a small sheet of paper and almost all the parts of his Robin suit. As the trap door closed and locked, one of the lights in his cell came on. How long had it been since he had last seen any light at all? A couple of weeks? His eyes squinted as the rays burned and blinded him. Once his pupils finally recalled how to react to light exposure, he took a moment to survey the situation.

His cell was a mess and so was he. Nobody had bothered to clean up in weeks, possibly even months. The blood was everywhere, even on the myriad of pictures on the wall and the slightly cracked mirror on the ceiling. The note was tucked underneath his usual bowl of water and moldy bread. After more than a year of torture, the mundane act of reading something handwritten felt strange, like going back to a place he had not been to in ages. The text itself was short and simple enough and read like an interview script. Three questions. Three answers.

 _Have you got something to tell the nice man, Jason?_ So this would be recorded for Batman’s viewing pleasure. _Smashing._

 _My name is Jason Todd._ No middle name. No sir. Something felt wrong. Why deviate from the rules now? This would be painful. He wondered whether Joker was going to use the simple, rounded end or the J, and whether it would be his left cheek or his so far unburned right. Maybe he had saved it for that specific occasion.

_Who do you hate?_

_Batman_. No sir again. _That’s two burns right there._

_Hey, I never asked? What’s the big secret? Who’s the big bad bat? His name. Tell me._

_Of course sir. It’s_ — There it was. _Sir_. Maybe the first two burns would be Joker’s way of showing Batman what his precious Robin had been through. A glimpse of the horror at least. He wondered if Bruce would feel even the slightest bit of remorse at the sight. He doubted it.

His gaze returned to the first sentence and this time he actually read his lines out loud until he had them memorized. If this was going to work, he would have to be perfect. He could not disappoint. When he was finally convinced that he’d remember all of it despite his mind-numbing solitary confinement Joker had put him in, he turned the paper over. If he had learned one thing in his time here, it was that there was always a catch, an unspoken, hidden rule. When he found a hastily scribbled sentence on the back of the paper, he was not surprised.

_By the way, what is the family’s favorite perch in Gotham?_

He let out a deep sigh. What was everyone’s favorite perch? Batman didn’t really have any or at least if he did, he had never told anybody. Somehow Jason had always had the feeling that Batman would find even the idea of a favorite perch ridiculous. Batgirl loved the Clock Tower, mostly because that was where all the computers were. And her apartment. No place like home after all. Dick had always loved Grand Avenue, with its many gargoyles, bars, grates and other opportunities for all kinds of death-defying stunts. Either one of those two places would have done just fine, probably, yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to choose either. Dick and Barb had always been the ones in the spotlight. It was about time that Jason got to be the center of the family’s attention for once. Now he just needed something to write with. He doubted it was coincidence that Joker had not left him a pen.

It didn’t take much for his teeth to rip open one of the many cuts in his arm, even despite his mouth being five teeth short of a full set. He watched as the blood rose to the surface slowly and dabbed his right index finger into the red carefully. Writing felt even stranger than reading, but at least he knew exactly what he would have to say.

 _Mercy_ _Bridge_ _, sir._

Mercy Bridge… Jason had loved that place. The blue of GCPD to the north, the red of Grand Avenue to the south. Lady Gotham to the west, the Asylum to the east. In the distance, the bright, colorful lights of Founders Island, Chinatown and Miagani Island. The soothing rush of the waves. Sometimes when he had escaped from the manor because of one thing or another, he had spent hours up there, breathing it all in, enjoying being so close to everything and yet in perfect solitude. Jason Todd had been a strange kid.

He tucked the note back underneath the empty bowl, put on the rest of the Robin suit and retreated into the corner of the room. By the time the lights went out, he had reached a count of nine thousand eight-hundred and twenty.

He knew the big day had come when he heard multiple steps coming down the stairs instead of just one. He had all of ten seconds of light before someone put a bag over his head and started beating the crap out of him. The Knight did not fight back. _Deal with the devil_ , he reminded himself. This was all part of the big plan. Besides, these guys hit like six-year-old girls. He had had way, way worse before.

He heard the sound of tearing paper. Maybe someone was removing the newspapers and pictures? It was followed by loud scraping and thumping. Someone unshackled him and pushed him down on a wooden chair. They gave him one last hit to the head before leaving the room. He knew he was not alone, though.

Joker’s red grin greeted him as soon as the plastic bag came off. “Happy seventeenth birthday, Todders!” Joker cheered as he stepped to the side and let him take a closer look at his surroundings. The room looked so much bigger without all the pictures on the wall and all the hooks removed. Behind him, the wall had been stacked with TV sets all the way from the top to the bottom. A few feet in front of him an old-fashioned camera sat on a tripod.

_Happy seventeenth birthday. August 16 th. Fifteen fucking months. Time to end this._

“Thank you, sir.” He watched quietly, his hands in his lap, as Joker’s smile widened.

“Now, I hope you remember the script, Jason.”

“Of course, sir.” His eyes searched the room for the branding iron, but found nothing. Its absence left an unsettling feeling in his stomach. This was not going as expected. He’d have to improvise. The Knight hated improvisation. It was the tool of the amateur. Jason’s tool.

The camera sprang to life with a rattling sound. Behind him, the TV screens started buzzing. The show had begun.

“Have you got something to tell the nice man, Jason?”

“My name is Jason Todd.” Joker did not move from behind the camera, but the smile on his face told him that he was not in trouble. Yet.

“Who do you hate?”

“Batman.” _Let the old man chew on that_. He would have given anything to see the look on his face when he saw that video.

“Excellent, of course you do. Did you get that, Bats? Kid’s not yours anymore. He’s mine” Joker gloated. “Mine, mine, mine. To do with as I wish.” He could feel the bile rising up in his throat. The last time someone had talked about him like that he had been twelve, naked and bruised in an alley in the Coventry and it still made his skin crawl to this day. Joker could have Jason, but he would never have the Knight. He kept his head down as Joker approached him, circling him, putting his boney hands on the red-suited shoulders. Just a little longer and this show would be over.

“Hey, I never asked? What’s the big secret? Who’s the big bad bat?” Joker was in front of him again, slightly off-center so he would not block the camera’s view. “His name. Tell me.”

This was the moment he had been waiting for. “Of course, sir.” _Please don’t_ , Jason begged in some distant corner of his mind. “It’s—“

The pain was so sudden, so instantaneous, that he could not even scream. The bang of the gun, the sickening crunch of his shattered vest and the loud thud as he was knocked out of the chair and onto the ground all mingled into one deafening sound inside his ears. All his life people had told him that he’d see his entire life flash in front of him right before death and he had certainly had a few near-death experiences that had had that effect on him, but this was different. There was no time for flashbacks. No time for fear, pain or regret. As the bullet tore through his flesh, all Jason could perceive was red.

***

Bom-bom … Bom-bom … Bom-bom … Bom-bom.

The sound was dull, but steady in his ear. Were those drums? What was going on?

He remembered the interview. He remembered Joker asking for Batman’s real name. Then there was a bright flash, horrible noises and darkness _. He shot me_. The thought made him strangely angry. After everything Joker had done to him, a simple bullet seemed too… simple, too primitive. He felt insulted. He felt hurt.

Bom-bom-bom-bom-bom-bom-bom.

Those weren’t drums. It was his heartbeat and his sudden onslaught of rage had just driven his blood pressure through the roof. He was alive. _Suck on that, Joker_.

He tried to focus on opening his eyes, but his body felt as if it was floating through nothingness. He had no idea where up and down was, let alone which part of his body was where. All he knew was that he was not dead yet. Just tired. Unbelievably, mind-numbingly tired.

***

The next time he regained consciousness, his heart was no longer in his ear, but at least his eyes obeyed. The lids lifted slowly, fluttering open against the dim light shining from the ceiling. He knew where he was the second he saw the mirror.

The rest of his body was still too heavy to move, but the mirror told him enough. He was in his cell, surrounded once more by pictures of Batman and the replacement. The floor beneath him was blood and dirt and so was he. His naked body looked pale as a corpse, too thin, too weak, too broken. He recognized all the marks and remembered all the tools that had caused them. Aside from his greasy, overlong hair, the angry red J on his cheek, the sewn-up wound in his chest and a few inflamed wounds that had become infected, he looked like a ghost made of ashes and death. The bloody bullet was lying next to him on a silver platter, together with the picture of Batman and the replacement that had crushed Robin and crippled Jason. It had been the beginning of the end for them. For him, for the Knight, it had only been the beginning. All around him, words were scribbled on the floor, ceiling and walls in deep crimson blood. If the Knight had to guess, the blood was probably his. He read each phrase word by word. _Hahaha! Why so serious? Joke’s on you! What took you so long, Bats? Robins die easy…_

_Yes, Robins die easy. Knights did not._

Joker’s plan was clear now. Jason would lie here, slowly dying of dehydration and trauma, until Bats would be too late to save the day. Except the Knight was not having it. He was not going to let this body die. And Bruce would not show up anyway, so why bother waiting?

It took every ounce of concentration he could muster to even move a single finger, but he would be damned if he was going to stay here, waiting for Batman to come find him. He hadn’t managed, hadn’t bothered in fifteen months. His hands were next. He flexed them carefully. Everything in his body either felt completely numb or hurt like crazy, but he would manage. He would get out of here. His feet and legs were next. When he tried to push himself over to see if he could kneel at least, red, hot pain erupted throughout his chest. He bit down hard on his bottom lip and cursed as the ground beneath him swayed. The last thing he felt before the darkness claimed him was the stinging in his left shoulder as his body slumped onto the cold floor.

***

In his dreams, Batman had found him. Nightwing and Batgirl and the replacement had been with him. He had watched from the corner of the room as they had descended down the stairs and approached his eerily pale, unmoving body. Bruce had felt for a pulse, shaken his head and marched out the door. His three helpers had pretty much shrugged their shoulders as if to say ‘oh well, too bad, so sad’ and followed him. Then the trap door had clicked shut for the final time, leaving his corpse to rot. The only thing that had surprised him about this charade was that Batman had shown up at all.

***

This time, his mind was much clearer when he awoke. He was aware of the cold of the floor almost instantly. When he willed his hand to curl into a fist, it did so without protest. He was still slightly dizzy when he rolled over and pushed himself into a kneeling position, but the pain no longer incapacitated him. He had spent enough time in this godforsaken hellhole. His eyes fell on the bullet and picture on the silver platter and he grabbed them both with a vice-like grip. It was time for the Arkham Knight to leave his home. It was time to take back his freedom, his life. He stumbled up the stairs, still tired and light-headed, but determined to push through. He ascended the steps on all fours, not quite trusting his balance just yet. His breath felt hot and heavy in his chest as he counted each step. _Sixty-five_. Just as he remembered.

The trap door was open. The heavy desk had already been moved aside. Clearly no one had expected him to get up from this bullet, even if it had missed his heart by the width of a hair. He shambled along the hallways on his naked feet, soon drawing blood as he cut himself on cracked tiles and occasional shards of glass, but his mind had never been more focused. _Twenty steps_ , Jason reminded himself as he clung to walls like a shadow. _Turn left. Six steps. Turn right_. _Turn left, fourteen steps ahead, turn left and left again, forty-five steps, turn right. Twenty steps to the stairs._ As he reached the corner that had been the site of his failed escape attempt more than a year ago, the Knight stuck to the wall and surveyed all corners carefully. There was no clown, no crowbar, waiting for him this time. At the end of the hallway, on the doorstep to freedom, a single armed thug in the bright red of Joker’s gang stood facing the courtyard. A lookout. They were actually expecting Bats to care and show up. _Cute._ He sneaked up on the man with his breath held tightly in his chest, every fiber of muscle that was left in his body tensed and ready to strike. _Right turn, fifteen steps_. It all felt so painfully familiar. His hands found their way along the goon’s jaw and neck with lethal precision. One snap later, he was dead. The knight peeked around both corners to the outside before stepping to freedom over the man’s dead body.

It was night in Gotham. Blissful, black, endless night. Rain was falling in thick threads, like warm lines of spun glass. It soaked through his greasy hair and ran down his cold skin in shining rivulets, washing the dirt, blood and cold off him. For the first time in fifteen months he felt clean again. For the first time in fifteen months he felt alive. Through a tiny little hole in the clouds he could see the distant twinkle of some star burning up millions of miles away. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and for a few minutes all he could do was stare in wonder as the rain washed him clean of that dreadful cell.

He made his way back to the dead henchman and relieved him of his pants, shirt, jacket, scarf, boots and gloves. He had much more use for them than this dead idiot. _At least_ , he thought sourly as it occurred to him that he was now truly part of Joker’s gang, _at least it’s all red and black_. He took the knife and the gun, too, as well as the dead man’s wallet – woefully empty – and his smartphone – potentially useful, although he would have to find and disable any trackers. He hid the bullet and the polaroid in the chest pocket of his new jacket and started considering his next moves. He needed to get off this damn island and out of Gotham. Away from Joker. Away from Batman. The closest exit was Gotham International Airport, but there was practically no way that he was going to get in and out of there alive without anyone noticing him. The second-closest option was Blüdhaven. He might as well just walk up to the Asylum’s entrance and call Bruce on the Batphone. That left Port Adams. Too long to hike. He needed a car.

The Asylum’s parking lot was almost empty. Some poor devil was going to have to take a taxi back home from the graveyard shift come morning. As he went from car to car, memories of Jason’s younger days on the street came back to him. It had taken lots of trial and error and quite a few dangerous near-misses for him to figure out how to steal car parts most efficiently – which cars looked less conspicuous, which alarm systems were easier to defuse, which locks easier to open. Now, as he came upon a simple grey Nissan that had been hastily abandoned in a corner of the lot with the door unlocked and papers strewn all over the seat, he knew he had just gotten damn lucky. Maybe he should send the not so bright Dr. Brighton – as the name on the confidential papers said – a thank you card for being such a ditz when this was over. He slipped into the driver’s seat and was about to short-circuit the ignition when the distant, yet familiar sound of a billion dollar engine drove him out of his blissful moment of triumph.

He ducked quickly below the windows and watched silently as the Batmobile rolled up near the Asylum’s main entrance. _He… he has actually come for me?_ Jason sounded somewhere between stunned and elated. The Knight rolled his eyes and hoped the kid would just shut up. He watched as Batman and Robin got out of the car and escorted their passenger to the Asylum’s entrance where security gladly relieved them of their burden. Obviously not one of the really dangerous crazies. They got back into the car without a second glance. As the engine roared and the car-tank rolled off into the night, he could feel hope crumble into disappointment and rise as anger.

_I should have shouted for them._

_Yeah, you should have_ , the Knight mused. _I’m sure it would have gone over real smooth. Hey, Batman, sorry for disobeying you, breaking all your rules and getting myself captured and owned by your nemesis. But I see you already have a much better and smarter replacement, so no hard feelings, right?_ He rolled his eyes as he could feel Jason recoil in shame and pain. “Just shut up, loser.” He got back up into the driver’s seat and jumpstarted the car. As the engine sprung to life, he could hear laughter rise to the surface of his throat for the first time in fifteen months. With every mile, Arkham Asylum grew more distant in the rear view mirror. His eyes fell on the J on his cheek. All the pain of the last months slowly reappeared. His bones were no longer broken and none of his other wounds were raw or fresh, but that did not mean that he had mended, that he had healed. Fatigue crept on to him halfway through Miagani Island and he nearly ended up swerving into Pinkney’s Orphanage. He decided right then and there to ditch the car and rigged the pedals to drive the Nissan right off Salvation Bridge. Whoever would find it would not find any traces of his prints or DNA at least. He walked the rest of the way on bleeding, aching feet, careful to stick to the shadows and alleys far away from CCTV cameras. He was a dead man’s ghost and no one would find him until he was gone.

Sneaking into Port Adams turned out to be a lot easier than weaseling his way through the city with no first-hand driving experience. A glance at the Clock Tower had told him that it was almost five in the morning and the guards were almost asleep. His shoulders and right ankle exploded into hot pain as he climbed in on one of the cranes and slipped between the containers, but he gritted his teeth and pushed onward. Now was the time to see if his brain had gone rusty and crippled in that dungeon as well. He reached for the smartphone he had inherited from Joker’s dead henchman and searched the wifi networks. Apparently, all security systems in Port Adams used the same connection: CARGO-PAG. _Sloppy_. It took him two minutes to write the program that would enable him to hack it and fourteen seconds to actually hack it.

Apparently, there was a ship just about to leave the port: the _Lucia_ , headed for Santa Prisca. Her shipping manifest soon explained why he could hear the captain argue with harbor control all the way over here. Multi-language education had always been part of the Robin-curriculum and while Jason had shown as much talent for linguistics as Alfred had for singing, it was enough now to tell him that the captain was seriously pissed. Half the cargo he was supposed to take to Santa Prisca – the half that was simply classified as “various perishables” – had never made it to Port Adams, which left him going back with a half-empty ship. _Guess drug trade isn’t what it used to be either. Good. They will not mind a couple more pounds of weight then_. The cargo that had actually made it was a beautiful mix of packaged food, medical supplies, clothes and lots of electronic goodies. What more could a stow-away want? The ship was running with minimal staffing of twelve men, most of which would probably not bother to go anywhere near the merchandise for fear of what their bosses at home would do to them. _Good._

Identifying one of the last containers to be loaded into the ship’s cargo hold was easy. Cracking the container’s security system even more so. He slipped in unnoticed, closed the door behind himself and leaned back patiently as the huge metal box was lifted into the small vessel. If the ship kept sailing at a steady twenty knots, it would take them about a week to arrive in Santa Prisca. He was looking forward to seeing the sun again. He searched the cargo of his current container for anything useful and came upon a box full of fancy linens and cushions, probably a delivery for one of those fancy beach hotels. Soon, he had a comfortable bed laid out for him in the corner. As the ship slowly started rolling off with the waves, he slipped into slumber, thinking of palm trees and sand.


	7. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape and freedom are not synonymous. As Jason tries to recover from his fifteen months in hell, the long-term consequences of his ordeal slowly become apparent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: graphic violence, PTSD, psychosis, attempted self-harm, swearing  
> Side notes: Since this chapter is all original content, I spent hours researching passport regulations around the end of 2012 and fake-identity-building. NSA would have had a field day with my google search history.

It was August 25th when the _Lucia_ arrived at her home port of Soledad, Santa Prisca. He sat hunched in the near pitch black darkness of his little container cave, his teeth nibbling on the last of the packaged crackers he had foraged. It had been a rough week.

The first half of his trip had been spent almost entirely in sleep, nightmares and medical patchwork. Every time he closed his eyes more memories of the last fifteen months came back to him, horrors his brain had previously pushed onto the back burner to make way for new additions to the cabinet of torture. The branding remained the most common one, followed by his first failed escape attempt and his final recording session in which Joker had tried very hard – and failed – to kill him. But those were only three days out of four-hundred and forty-two.

_Four-hundred and forty-two. Goddamn…_

It was no surprise to him that he discovered new scars all over his body each time he looked. Usually, his mind was happy to provide him with every detail of their origin. It was the few times when it didn’t that left him feeling positively sick. What kind of games had Joker been playing with him when he was not conscious? There were too many blank stretches in his memory that he had no control over. Joker’s persistent laughter in the back of his head had not made it any better.

Still, there was no way around it. He had to look at his injuries and treat them if necessary, unless he wanted to risk even more damage, and so the Knight had sat in his container, scrounged up medical supplies sprawled out in front of him, working his way from his toes to his head, reopening infected wounds to clean them out and applying fresh bandages. What little of the sniveling coward Jason was left in him, somewhere in the deepest reaches of his soul, had wished that Alfred were here, with his medical expertise and fatherly care. _Well, he is not_ , the Knight had reminded him, _so quit whining_.

The worst part had been treating his face.

The batarang scars were not an issue. Sure, the metal had cut deep and he would carry those thin lines for the rest of his life, but it was not those scars that had nearly made him cut off half his face. It was the J on his cheek.

One of his first acts upon reaching international waters had been to forage the containers for new clothes. What he had eventually grabbed was also red, but much more suited to the heat of Santa Prisca. More importantly, it had no connection to Joker. He had tossed the dead goon’s clothes at the earliest opportunity, keeping nothing but the gun, knife and the contents of his pockets. He had finally escaped Gotham. He had finally ditched the clothes. And yet, Joker still owned him and he always would as long as this _thing_ was on his cheek. He had sat in the half-light of his hideout, with a mirror in his lap and the knife above the horizontal bar of the letter, trembling like a leaf in the wind, for the better part of an hour. In the end, as his arm grew ever heavier, he had realized that – no matter what he did to his face – he would still see that J every time he looked in a mirror, he would still feel the burning in his cheek every time he woke up and every time he went to sleep. Every time he thought of Joker. Or Batman for that matter. Disfiguring himself even further would not make it any easier. Jason had wanted to remove the mark at any cost, even staring longingly at the phone batteries with their corrosive acids. The Knight had weighed the risk of further damage against the benefits of a short-lived, cosmetic triumph and had decided to put down the knife. The next day, he had found himself back in the same position, knife above the scar, ready to cut. He doubted they would ever agree on this.

His next priority had been rebuilding his general health. He knew it was an ongoing battle that would continue for weeks to come. Joker’s dietary regimen had left him half-starved, with barely any muscle left, and a stomach that no longer remembered what it was like to digest a full meal. He had nibbled on the crackers, piece by piece, each second a fight against the urge to wolf them down and go for something fattier and sweeter. Crackers, saltines, rice waffles, dried fruit and lots of water. That had been his fare for the length of the trip. Slowly, the angry growling in his stomach had receded. He was no longer losing weight, but it would be at least another two weeks until his wrecked body would be ready to put on more muscle. Until then, he’d have to figure out how to survive in Santa Prisca without getting into too many fights.

Thank God for the container full of electronics.

On the last day before his arrival to Santa Prisca he had finally ventured into the big grey box which, according to the shipping manifest he had downloaded in Port Adams, held several hundreds of laptops and smart phones. He had not been disappointed. The tablet he had eventually picked for himself was small enough to conceal in his new clothes, but better suited for his imminent hacking future than a simple phone. He had transferred all the data from the goon’s iPhone, then tossed it overboard in the dead of the night. It had taken his brain a lot of backtracking to recover all the details, but eventually he had managed to rebuild the nifty little network-cracking program Barbara had shown to him once. The one she had used to crack the Batcave network at age fifteen. He had to give credit where credit was due. Barbara was good at her job. On his return for revenge, she would have to be the first piece to be removed off the board. _And no, don’t worry, I’m not going to KILL her_ , he mused as he could feel Jason’s panic rise in the depths of his mind.

He had spent the rest of the day planning his arrival in Santa Prisca. According to the ship log, they would unload the containers, store them at the port for a couple of hours before sending them through customs, so that any goods that were not meant for official eyes could be safely removed. He would do them the courtesy of removing himself, plus the most expensive phones on board. They would make for a nice start-up income once he pawned them off at the local black market. By his own estimates, given how outrageously expensive luxury goods were in Santa Prisca, that alone would net him about eight-thousand dollars worth of Santa Prisca Pesos hard cash. He would need the money to acquire the fake documentation needed to build a new identity or two – birth certificates, social security numbers and, most importantly, passports. A good three hours of his planning had been going into researching his options. Santa Prisca documents would likely be easy and cheap to come by, but if he ever wanted to have any chance of getting back to the US unnoticed, he would need something with more credibility as well. Thank God for the useless Canadian bureaucrats who had postponed the launch of biometric passports. Not having his finger prints on any of these documents would make everything much, much easier.

The ship arrived on schedule, two hours past dawn. He sat in the container which, according to the shipping instructions, would be positioned closest to the container yard's outer walls, with a backpack full of supplies strapped to his shoulders, a hood drawn up tight around his face, muscles tensed and ready to make a break for it, as he heard the sharp click and heavy screech of the cargo hold doors opening. In his mind, it was not a cargo hold. It was a trap door. The words of the ship crew and dock workers barely reached him through the metal and the fear. They were nothing but an endless stream of Spanish gibberish. In his head, Joker was laughing. It wasn’t until he felt the container being lifted, slowly, inch by inch, that he broke out of the murky haze and regained his senses. _Focus. There are no second chances here_. He waited until the container had come to a full stop and the tell-tale sound of the crane’s moving arm was receding from his position before disabling the box’s security. His fingers curled around the release mechanism. This was it. Twenty seconds to freedom.

The first ray of light that broke through instantly blinded him. It was too bright. Too white. The hairs on his forearm stood up like soldiers on parade as the unfamiliar warmth tickled his skin. _Sunlight_. He hadn’t seen or felt sunlight in more than fifteen months. It might as well have been strange radiation from an alien planet. He squinted hard against the brightness and forced his gaze to the bottom of the container. The ground seemed distant. Judging from the boxes around, they had stacked his on top of two other containers. Too long a drop for someone who was still recovering from trauma. As his hand pried open the doors enough to give him room to push through, the sound of shouts poured into the darkness. “¿Juan, qué pasa? ¿Porqué se ‘sta abriendo el contenedor?” _Well shit_. They were on to him. _Leap of faith it is then_.

He pushed the doors open and jumped for the stack of containers on his right. His feet had barely touched the metal top when the sirens went off and the shouts grew louder. A sharp, metallic ring sounded next to his right foot. The metal was scraped and indented where the bullet had struck and ricocheted. _Well, I guess, these boys are playing for keeps_. Adrenaline shot through his veins as his gaze zoomed in on the yard's walls, no more than ten feet from the far edge of the box he was standing on. He could feel every remaining muscle in his legs work as he sprinted for the edge. Ten seconds later, he was pulling himself up the wall. More bullets hit the metal next to his head. As he drew himself over the edge and down the other side, he could see the security guard lining up for another shot. _Too slow_. He gave one last glance down the wall before letting go. This was going to hurt.

He landed hard on the gravel. Crouching had helped absorb some of the blow, but not all of it. Still, there was no time to lose. His eyes darted across the landscape and zoomed in on a block of buildings right across the street. _Alleys, darkness, cover. Perfect._ He broke into a sprint once more, dodged the taxi driver that nearly ran him over and slipped into the narrow alley on the other side of the road. As he raced through winding pathways, past the countless little workshops and storage units of Soledad’s industrial quarter, La Panza, he was no longer thinking. This was instinct. He had been doing this since Willis Todd had been thrown in jail, since he had had to scrounge up the money to feed the woman who was supposed to be taking care of him. He had survived on the streets of Gotham for years. He would not die on the streets of Santa Prisca today. With every winding turn, the buildings became increasingly derelict, then defunct, then half-crumbling. He picked the least conspicuous looking ruin, peeked through the window to find the ground littered with trash and dirty mattresses and decided that this was as good a place as any. As he slipped through the window and sat down against the wall, the familiar feeling of the end of a long hunt started sprawling through his body. Apparently some things never changed. Whether it was tall and black Gotham or flat and creamy Soledad – alleys were alleys and the darkness felt beautifully familiar.

With the adrenaline fading, his mind slowly returned to the matters at hand. His throat was burning. Sweat was running down his back in wide rivulets. He reached into his bag for the water bottle he had nicked from the ship’s kitchen and took deep chugs. His shoulders, legs and right ankle were crying in pain, but there was no damage that he could see. _Just not used to the strain again,_ he mused, but he could not quite shake the feeling that he might never fully recover from the damage that had been done to him. The thought made him queasy and he pushed it back into the darker depths of his mind. There would be time for that later. Next was the merchandise. He unzipped the bag all the way and removed the bundle of blankets he had hidden the phones and tablet in. None of them seemed broken. He breathed a quick sigh of relief before tucking the tablet into the inside pocket of his hood and stashing the phones in the various pockets of his new vest and pants. The hood concealed them nicely. Once he had eradicated the last of the dried fruit he had saved for this day, the Knight got up and shouldered his backpack once more. It was time to make some money.

***

Finding Soledad’s black market turned out to be easy enough. Only one hour in the central market near the train station had been enough to convince him that gray was as light as markets got in this town. He had not yet observed a single shop in this place that had been completely clean. A cut here, a counterfeit bill there. He had also taken notice of the many undercover cops that prowled the many crowded and chaotic aisles. To any of the shopping tourists they would have looked just like locals, hunting for a bargain, but he knew the subtle differences in strides and glances that broke the façade. He had seen so much of it during his childhood, any cop in any city might as well be wearing a big, bright, neon red sign. On the other side of the moral fence, he had already broken the wrists of two pick pockets who had tried to rob him. News seemed to travel fast and the next kid reaching into tourists’ pockets had avoided him after a long hard stare. If there was one thing going on in this place that did not remind him of Gotham’s black market, it was the bargaining. Jason hated bargaining. The Knight despised it even more. He would have to work around that. As he made his way to one of the smaller electronics stores in a long, irregular aisle full of tech shops, he steeled himself for the inevitable complaints.

“Ah, good day, señor! You looking for Priscan sim, yes?” The shop keeper beamed at him as if he were the last customer on earth. Fake as a trick dollar. “We have all carriers, good plans and best phones! You buy phone, we give you two sims for free!”

“Actually, I am looking to sell.” He retrieved one of the smart phones from the right front pocket of his pants and handed it over to the man, before moving the right side of his hood outwards to give him a glimpse of the gun he still carried. Truth was that he only had nine rounds left and if he started a shoot-out right then and there, he’d probably not get out of it alive, but there was no reason to let his shop keeper buddy know that. The smile instantly grew more somber. “I see, señor.” He watched patiently as the shop keeper turned the phone over in his hands. “iPhone 4S. Is good quality. Look very new.”

“Fresh out of the box.”

“I give you four-hundred dollar.”

“Six-hundred.” No way was he walking away from this with only two thirds of his money. He moved the hood once more. “If you take it for seven-hundred a piece, I will give you two.” He looked past the man into the back of the shop where a teenaged girl and her mother were busy sealing and unsealing boxes and printing receipts. “I’m sure your daughter would like a new phone, too, don’t you think? Kids these days can be pretty demanding and expensive…” The man’s face instantly paled. _Jackpot._

“Of course, señor.” The shop keeper turned around slowly. “Pilar, una carta roja, por favor.” The girl looked on confused, but her mother’s face fell instantly. Her hands shivered as she reached for a simple grey box in the lowest shelf of the desk she was seated at. “¿Cuántos meses?”

“Catorce.”

She stuffed the notes into the envelope with trembling hands, stashed the box away again and handed the letter to him, together with a phony, red sim card. The Knight peeked in and counted the notes quickly. Fourteen hundred-dollar bills. He retrieved a second phone from his other front pocket and slid both devices over to the shop keeper. “Buenos días, señor.”

He left without waiting for an answer and disappeared into the clothing alley for a couple of minutes before heading for another tech shop on the other side of the market. In the deepest corners of his mind, Jason raged in protest at his methods, as expected. _Be glad I didn’t just shoot him and take his cash_ , the Knight mused.

Two hours later, he was minus all smart phones and plus eight-thousand dollars and a Santa Priscan burner phone and number. _Starting funds, check. Legit phone number, check_. He grabbed a box of traditional coconut chicken and a fresh bottle of water on his way out and headed back to La Panza. This time, some random window would not cut it. His eyes searched carefully for unused spots among the abandoned workshops and factories. It was barely past noon, but already the first drifters were returning to their hideouts. Come nightfall, this place would be crawling with homeless addicts, street rats and thugs. He had to have had some sleep by then. The last thing he wanted was to be caught homeless and asleep in the middle of Soledad’s proverbial belly. Too many of these buildings were too low to the ground. He needed something high up, where most thugs would not dare to venture for fear of breaking their necks in their sleep. He had just rounded another corner of disappointing options when his gaze fell on the abandoned building next to the quarter’s radio tower. The words “Santiago Media” were no longer glowing above its boarded up front door, but the structure itself was still intact. At four stories the building stood taller than any other.

 _Santiago_ _Media…_

The name had crossed his path frequently while he had been researching Soledad and its boroughs. This place had once employed more than half a thousand people, until its owner – an American businessman – had been caught for tax evasion and fraud. He had liquidated everything and everyone in an effort to pay off his debts. He had been about ready to sell the building itself when a mob of disgruntled ex-employees had torched the place, reducing its worth to practically zero and leaving Santiago without that one last couple of hundred thousand dollars he would have needed to buy his way out. Now the once proud landmark of Soledad’s entertainment industry was nothing more than an abandoned ruin, with hazard signs warning of potential collapses splattered all across the walls.

He made his way in through one of the windows on the ground floor and surveyed the blackened halls carefully. The multitude of blankets, cardboard box beds, drug paraphernalia and litter told him that he was not the only one who ignored the signs. The metal stairs to the first floor creaked under his steps, but held out just fine. It wasn’t until he reached the third floor that the metal started bending slightly. One glance at the steps leading up to the fourth told him that he was not going to go any higher.

Thick clouds of dust and dirt whirled up around him as he made his way through the third floor. The fire had destroyed everything that had not been made of metal and concrete. What little valuables might have been left had long since been picked off by scavengers. Nobody had dared to go up this high in weeks at least. Through one of the broken windows, he could see the metal skeleton of the radio tower reaching up to the sky. It would make for a nice entry and exit. With a deep sigh, the Knight unpacked the blankets he had brought and laid them out behind one of the supporting pillars that held the ceiling to the fourth floor. Inside the building, Santa Prisca’s humid heat felt even more suffocating. _At least_ , he thought sourly, _it’s not the chill of a dungeon in an Asylum_. He downed half the water bottle and went for the rice-and-chicken dish he had bought at the market. The sharp and pleasant flavors of fresh coconut, lemongrass and half a dozen spices whose names he could no longer place exploded on his tongue. If this building was going to come down on his head, at least he would have had a good last meal. As he finished the portion, tucked his backpack underneath his head as a pillow and slipped his right hand around the grip of the knife on his belt, he hoped his stomach would finally be willing to keep it all down.

***

In his dreams, Joker was feeding him poison cake fork after fork, over and over again. The first bite sent him howling in pain. The second made him laugh until he felt his lungs were about to explode. The third seemed to eat a hole straight through his bowels. The fourth paralyzed him, to the point where he could only watch in horror as Joker, Batman and the replacement merrily went about their way of cutting him open limb by limb. Someone grabbed a salt shaker and started seasoning his wounds. He wanted to move, to scream, but nothing in his body except for his eyes would budge. He watched in terror as the replacement started tugging at his left ear. It wasn’t until the kid started talking in Spanish that he realized it was just another nightmare. The instant his mind saw through the trick, he was back in the abandoned Santiago Media building.

The kid was not the replacement and he was not tugging at Jason’s ear. He was going for the backpack. Someone else was rifling through his pockets. _My money…_ He brought his knife up in a swift strike cutting the boy’s face from the lower left to the top right and sending him howling in pain. The girl who had been going through his pockets backed off instantly, her fists full of green cash. He was on her in a second, one hand around her neck, the other holding the knife right beneath her eye. Even in the half-light of a beautiful Santa Prisca sunset he could tell that she could have been no more than twelve. He kept the knife beneath her eye, but brought her up into a chokehold and turned towards the boy who was very clearly her brother. The kid looked at him in wide-eyed shock, his face more crimson than golden-brown. “Drop the cash!” The boy could not have been much younger than she was and clearly had not understood a word he said. Eleven. Ten perhaps. _Stop it! Just stop, please!_ Jason pleaded from the depths of his mind. “Drop! The! Cash!”

“¡Deja el dinero!” Her voice was little more than a frantic whisper, but the panic was obvious. “¡Déjalo!” He watched, every fiber in his body tense, as the girl retrieved bill after bill from her own pockets and dropped them to his feet. Her brother soon followed her example.

“Good.” _Now let her go, please!_ “Tell your brother to leave.”

“¡Corre!”

“Lita—“

“¡Corre!” There were tears in her eyes now. He could see a thin line of red run down her cheek as the knife pierced her skin ever so slightly. On the other side of the makeshift bed, the boy was crying. At last, the kid ran for the stairs. He sheathed the knife and slammed her against the supporting pillar, his left hand still tight around her neck. She was light as a feather. Her brown eyes were pleading with him, filled with fear and dread. He brought his face right in front of hers. “If I find that you took ANYTHING from me, I will hunt you down and skin both of you alive, do you understand?” The girl nodded desperately. A choked sound that was probably supposed to be a ‘yes’ stuck in her throat. He let her dangle for a few more seconds before dropping her to the floor. Half a minute later, she had skittered away and down the stairs. _You fucking bastard—_

“DON’T START WITH ME NOW!” Jason again. Too-weak-for-this-world-Jason. “NO ONE is taking anything else from ME!” He picked up the dropped notes and rifled through his pockets to retrieve the rest. “Be glad I didn’t blow her brains out.” His final count came up to eight-thousand minus what he had spent on food and water. Perhaps the kids really did have some brains after all. _And don’t you DARE throw another fit like this_ , the Knight admonished before Jason would have another chance to interrupt. The last thing he needed now was doubts and a guilty conscience.

***

The climb down the radio tower turned out to be trickier than expected. Two years ago, he could have done it in ten seconds. This time it had taken him nearly ten minutes. He made his way back to the market in the darkness of the abandoned district. Shadows had always been his friends. It was the brightly lit train station that made his stomach tighten into a knot. Night markets were a different beast from day markets. People felt safe surrounded by light, but he knew the truth. This time of day, there would be more thugs looking for easy prey in a single corner of this market than there would be in all of La Panza. Downtown was not a place you wanted to be after sundown in any major city.

He made his way along the aisles carefully, searching for the right corner. Usually, these places were labeled as ‘Tourist Information’ or ‘Help Center’ or disguised as banking branches. The closest he could find was a handful of shops selling medical supplies. He wandered up and down the row carefully, inspecting the goods. There was nothing here that even whispered forgery supplies.

“Can I help you, señor?” The young man behind the counter looked at him with another one of those fake smiles on his face. Still, it was worth a shot. He opened his wallet above the counter and pretended to be searching for some document.

“Don’t know. My brother lost his passport this morning and I was told someone around here had found it. But I can’t find the card—” He quickly dropped one of the green bills behind the counter. “Any idea if I am in the right place?”

That earned him a nasty look. “I’m sorry, señor. We cannot help you.”

 _Too bad._ He was just about ready to blow the guy’s brains out, but at least he got his hundred bucks back. _Just my kind of luck to find the one whiter-than-snow guy in this market_. He had barely been strolling down the aisles for another minute when he felt someone tug at his hoodie. As his gaze fell on the little girl, he could feel the frustration well up inside of him. Jason was going to have another fit again. “I know who you are looking for, señor!” The girl kept tugging. Part of him wanted to just shut her up. Too bad he was surrounded by at least a hundred people. He stuck his hands into his pockets and followed her through the winding aisles of the market to another corner of the square. His brows furrowed. ‘Alicia’s Fortune  & Divinations’ stared him in the face mockingly, a ramshackle office even by night market standards.

“¡Ala! ¡Ala! ¡Encontré a un cliente!” He watched the little girl disappear behind the counter. From the shadows to his left and right, two slightly older boys mustered him carefully. This town had way too many children on the street. He was half expecting Alicia to be another kid. To his surprise, she looked to be just about as old as he was.

“Good evening, sir.” Her English was almost flawless. _Good manners, too_ , Joker’s voice laughed in the back of his head. He closed his eyes against the memories and willed his hands to stop trembling. “How may I help you?”

“My brother lost his passport.”

Her eyes widened in recognition for just a split second. Another easy smile slipped onto her lips. “I am sorry to hear that, sir. I did get _some_ lost and found items today. Come with me, please.” She winked him over and lifted the heavy purple curtain to the back of the shop. It looked like a perfect fortune teller’s office, crystal ball, tarot cards and all. One of the walls to the side looked to be blank white. Above the table, the words Misericordia, Reverencia and Penitencia stood with bright bold initials. _MRP. Machine-readable passport_. This was either a very strange coincidence or a very ridiculous front. If it was going to go south, at least it would be entertaining. He slipped past the curtain and sat down in front of the white wall. As soon as she had motioned to the little girl to watch the store, Alicia followed him, closed the curtains and drew down the shutters that had not been visible from the front of the store. “There we go. Now we can talk.” All the easy, dreamy-eyed fortune teller charm was gone from her voice. This was business. “What kind of passport do you need?”

The chuckle that wormed its way up his throat felt unreal. He took the crystal ball into his hands and shook it like a snow globe. This really was the most ridiculous front he had ever seen. “Whatever happened to ‘Tourist Information’ or ‘Help Center’?”

Her brow wrinkled into a deep frown. “Black market raid six months ago. Cracked down on most fraud and forgery businesses in Soledad. The guy who was in charge then is swimming with the fishes now, but no one is taking any chances.”

“And ‘Fortune & Divinations’ was your best idea?”

“Yes.” He watched her grab a notepad from her chest pocket, only to poke away at it furiously with a pencil from the top shelf of the antiquated cupboard behind her. “The way I see it, I’m the one coming up with your future identity AND controlling your fortune, so why don’t you tell me what you want?”

The crystal ball flew past her ear and knocked two kitschy figurines out of the cupboard. Judging from the way her body froze instantly, she was aware of just how much she had just pissed him off. _Good._ Nobody would ever be controlling him again. “I need two passports, plus accompanying birth certificates and social security numbers.” This was not the time for fury. As much as he hated the thought, this woman could potentially make or break his future. “But first I need to know that you can do your job.”

He watched her tap the notepad against the side of the desk. The mahogany creaked slightly as it revealed a hidden compartment. She reached in and handed him three passports. _US. Swiss. Japanese._ He leafed through each of them carefully, holding the identifying pages up against the light to check for hidden markers. He had to give credit where credit was due. The passports were perfect.

“I know someone who works for Santa Prisca’s passport office.” She explained, clearly just about as pissed off as he had been a moment ago. “I give the information, they give me passports. Everyone gets a cut. The little scouts outside are my siblings.” That explained everything. It seemed today everyone was just perfectly happy to stick their neck out for their family. Part of him wished he could have said the same thing about the people he had once called family. He handed back the passports and balled his fingers into fists. Now he really wanted to punch someone.

“So, passports, birth certificates and social security numbers.” He watched her scribble down symbols on her notepad. It looked like a home-made brand of stenography. “Which country?”

“Santa Prisca and Canada.”

“Good choice. Neither have biometrics yet.” More scribbles on the pad. He was starting to see a pattern. “Any preferred names, dates or places of birth?”

“No, just avoid the names Todd and Jason. And Bruce.” The last thing he needed was having to walk around with that one for a new identity.

“Will do.” She flicked the light switch to the left of the shutter and the room turned from cozy orange to a bright, glaring white instantly. In the harsh light, the girl immediately looked ten years older. “Now I just need your height, weight and picture.”

 _So that’s what the white wall is for_. “Six feet, two-hundred pounds.” At least the first half of that was true. The second would have been a lie no matter what he said. He had no idea how much weight he had lost throughout his time in captivity. Last he had checked, before he had been captured, it had been two-hundred pounds. He sat up straight and brushed his hair out of his face while she retrieved the camera. He really needed to cut it. He was half expecting her to complain.

“Would you kindly remove the bandage, please?”

He had not expected that. Within a second the J on his left cheek sprang to life, searing through his flesh down to his bones. The rest of his body was cold as ice. Everything around him was dank and dark except for the glowing J and the Clown’s red grin. Joker’s laughter echoed through his skull.

“—move the bandage, sir?”

“No.” It was all he could manage.

“Sir, whatever injury you have underneath that will be a lot easier to photoshop than that bandage. Please—“

“I SAID NO!” His fist came down on the table hard, knocking down both her notepad and her pencil. He watched her recoil to the other side of the room. From outside the shutter, the little girl’s voice whispered in concern.

“No te preocupes, hermanita. ‘stoy bien. ‘stoy bien.” She didn’t sound like she believed it herself. He certainly didn’t. He doubted her little sister did either. “Vale.” Her eyes were on him again. “Two more hours of photoshopping overtime coming up. Please sit still, look straight at the camera and don’t blink.”

The camera flashed bright white, but he barely noticed it. All he could see was Joker’s grinning face, staring back at him from every surface of the room. He should have cut the damn thing out of his cheek. “How much for the documents?” Was that his voice speaking? It sounded so hollow, so empty. He was faintly aware of Alicia sitting down once more and picking up her notepad.

“Fifty dollars per social number and birth certificate package. Two-thousand for the Santa Prisca passport, four-thousand for the Canadian one. That’s six-thousand and a hundred total. You pay half now. The other half on Friday. I’ll have all your documents by then.”

 _Friday…_ One more week as a nameless, mangled ghost, living on the streets of Santa Prisca. He could do this. It had even cost him a little less than he had anticipated. He would have enough money to live by once he actually had an identity. Until then, he would have enough to feed himself at least. It would do. He reached into his pockets and laid the green out on the table for her one by one. The motions felt disjointed, as if he were a puppet and somebody else was pulling his strings. When he reached three-thousand one-hundred, she grabbed the cash and locked it away together with the forged passports she had shown to him.

It was the sound of the shutter opening that drew him back into reality. The lights returned to their soft orange, only for the curtains to open and let the lights from the other stands flood the room. He got up slowly and was just about to step out of the little backroom, when he caught the inquisitive and alarmed look on both her and her sister’s faces. “If anybody hears anything about this or if your… estimates are off, you will have to find yourself some new scouts. Understood?”

***

That night, he dreamed of glowing J branding irons, mad grins and a new passport with the alias ‘Joker’ on it. He woke up screaming so loud, the rats that had crept into his little hideout skittered away with terrified squeals. To make things worse, Jason had been a persistent pain in his ass for the rest of the evening.

He got up slowly and tried to stretch his aching limbs only to have his shoulders flare up. In the distance, thunder rolled into the city of Soledad, Santa Prisca. _So that’s where the pain comes from…_ Now that he thought back on it, every time his shoulders, back and ankle had been acting up while he was on the _Lucia_ , they had either gone into or come out of a major storm. It made sense. Changes in air pressure and humidity were rather common triggers for nerve damage symptoms.

 _Nerve damage…_ He had hoped it had only been skin, flesh, muscle and bones. He had hoped his scars would be the only permanent reminder of his time in Joker’s hands. Waking up screaming every night was bad enough. He wondered now if he was ever going to be able to move like he had before, to jump, run, grapple and fight like he had in his days as Robin. _What if I can’t?_ The thought knocked him down and made him draw his knees up to his chest. What good would he be if he could never again be at his top game, at two-hundred percent? How was he possibly going to get his just revenge on Batman or Joker for that matter, if he was forever crippled by the damage done to him? He could feel the tears starting to build up in his eyes. _Jason, you pathetic little whiner_. He’d have to find a way to shut this kid up, to get this endless piece of misery and woe-is-me self-doubt out of his mind. In the darkness of his little hideout, Jason cried himself to sleep.

***

Six days crept by like an eternity, with each night leaving him more miserable than the last. The waiting was the worst part, being stuck on the sidelines, waiting for other people to finish the job. It had never been his style. And it wasn’t any easier now that he had practically nothing left to do. He had spent his days wandering Soledad, exploring the city that would most likely be his home for the next couple of weeks. The journey had led him to some useful vantage points and hiding spots and his eyes had been ever watchful for crates, bars, gargoyles and other architecture that would make for good training spots once he had the opportunity to get a safe base to retreat to. At the moment, safe was not a word in his vocabulary.

On the bright side, he had managed to pack on at least a few more pounds thanks for the delicious food from the day market’s street kitchens. He had stuck to fish, chicken, rice and noodles for now, not daring to go for fattier or sweeter fare just yet. Once he had his own home base, he’d go back to the protein-rich dietary regimen and the exercise plans that had turned him from a sniveling street rat to a force to be reckoned with all those years ago. Only this time he’d be better. Better than Jason. Better than Robin. Better than Batman himself.

It was sunset time on Friday when he made his way to the beaches east of Soledad. He had quickly figured out that sunset and sunrise were those sweet spots where the beach belonged neither to silly tourists nor drug-peddling, tourist-robbing thugs. Just the other day some tourist couple had made the mistake of going for a beach walk under the moonlight. The guy had ended up with a machete to the back. The girl had ended up worse. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he wanted to be gone before dark.

His dip in the sea was quick, yet painful. New wounds had joined his old ones, little scratches and cuts here and there, and the salt brought back more painful memories. Still, it had to be done. He let the waves carry away the old clothes he had scavenged on the _Lucia_ , scrubbed himself clean from head to toe and returned to the sand to slip into a new, fresh set of underwear, pants, shirt and a new hood. He had gone from bright red and solid black to cherry red and wool white and instantly felt less like a remnant of Joker’s gang and more like an average tourist. It was a welcome change. Once he was done, he made his way back to the night market.

‘Alicia’s Fortune & Divinations’ was right where he remembered it being. One of her two brothers was tailing him, probably thinking he hadn’t noticed. If the kid was smart, he’d stay away.

“Welcome back.” She tried to sound friendly, but all the warmth as gone. Jason did not blame her. The Knight did not care. “I suppose you’re back for the second half of the reading.” No _sir_ either. He imagined Joker putting a burning iron down onto her palm, but all that did was make his own hand itch like crazy. He really needed to get this over with. Following her into the back room, he felt as if he was going straight back down sixty-five steps. The shutter clicked behind him with a terrifying finality, while she bumped the side of the table to reveal two new fake passports. She waited until he had sat down, then handed him the documents for inspection.

The words ‘REPUBLICA DE SANTA PRISCA’ shone in bright gold on the navy blue book, followed by Santa Prisca’s official emblem and the word ‘PASAPORTE’. He opened it and found his own picture staring back at him, his left cheek photoshopped to reveal not a hint of the scar or the patch that covered it. The batarang scars on his face and the wire scars on his neck were clear enough, but he was grateful to not have the J on his identity documents at least. According to this piece of paper, he was no longer Jason Peter Todd, born on August 16th 1995 in Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America – he was now James Gray Martinez, born on April 5th 1989 in Montereina, Santa Prisca. He did not even know where that was, but it was fine by him. The second passport was equally bright gold on muted black and adequately bilingual. According to this, he was now Daniel Scott Fox, born on November 30th 1988 in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada.

 _Fox_ … The name brought back painful memories. Sweet, deceptive, painful memories of a time when he had believed himself to be part of something bigger, something wondrous. Still it could have been worse. It could have been Gordon. Or Grayson. Or _Wayne_.

“This is the rest.” She handed him an envelope with four sheets of paper. He removed the documents, and couldn’t help raising an eyebrow in disbelief. Birth certificates, social insurance numbers and passports. He was now legally someone else and no one would ever have to know. Maybe her shop had been adequately named. She seemed to have read his mind. “Keep in mind that all of these are forgeries though. Do NOT try to apply for official identity documentation using these. At least not in Canada. They WILL check with Edmonton’s registry office and they WILL find out that they are fake. Your Santa Priscan passport is valid for six years, your Canadian one for five. If you need renewals, feel free to come back.”

“I won’t.” It was the truth. He wasn’t planning for this to take five years. He wasn’t planning for it to take any longer than absolutely necessary. And one of the most painful lessons he had learned from the past, was never to use the same hideout or exit strategy twice. “Thank you, Alicia.” He removed the outstanding notes from the chest pocket of his shirt and laid them out for her one by one. She accepted them with a small nod and opened the shutter once more.

“Good luck, Mr. Martinez. Or Mr. Fox. Whichever you prefer.”

 _Martinez_ _… Fox…_ He pondered the names as he went across the night market, buying a small suitcase and the clothes and toiletries to go into it. When he was done, Mr. Daniel Fox made his way to the Sapphire Lagoon hotel on Soledad’s Playa Zafiréa and checked into one of the last available sea view rooms, paying in cold, hard cash for a week of bed and breakfast. He was down to two-hundred dollars now, but it hardly mattered. There were enough rich idiots in this hotel who would soon find that all their money had been sent in wire transfers to a Santa Priscan bank account where it was lost and gone forever. Except to Mr. Martinez of course. Mr. Fox would not go hungry for long.

He stepped into the suite slowly, carefully, his eyes examining every inch and every corner of the room. It felt strange having carpet under his feet again. The window opened up to the perfect view of a million stars sparkling in the deep blue waters of the Caribbean. He closed the windows but left the curtains alone. He had been stuck underground for four-hundred and forty-two days and he had spent another five days in a cramped, little container. He was not going to let anyone take this view away from him.

The bathroom was next. He dropped his clothes and winced at the sight of the scars that riddled his body, but it didn’t matter now. It was more than about time. He reached for the scissors that he had just bought and trimmed his hair back down to an inch. He might get a proper cut later, but at least he no longer looked like a shaggy street-mongrel version of lover boy Dick Grayson.

The shower was instantly hot. That was another thing that would take getting used to. He let the water wash off whatever salt and loose hair was still stuck on him, then dried himself up with what was quite possibly the fluffiest towel he had ever held in his entire life. It all felt so surreal, so soft, so unnatural. The real world was not like this. The real world was harsh and painful. But at least for now, at least for as long as he was recovering, this was all he wanted. Someplace warm. Someplace cozy. Someplace safe.

As he curled up under the fancy sheets of his fancy new bed, Daniel Fox prayed for a miracle: a night free of dreams.


	8. Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his body finally back in decent shape, Jason sets out to prepare his revenge. Operation Savior is born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: graphic violence, PTSD, psychosis, attempted/implied rape (original characters), original character deaths, swearing  
> Side notes: The idea of Jason’s talent for sketching and gadgetry came from the fact that his army has custom-built trackers, jammers and armor. Also, when talking to Lucius before ‘A Friend In Need’, Lucius will remark that the Arkham Knight is surprisingly well equipped and seems to have based his own suit on earlier Batsuit designs by Lucius.

_Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One-hundred_.

He put the weights back onto the rack with a heavy sigh and flexed his shoulders. He knew by now that the pain that greeted him was no longer a result of over-worked muscles, but a deeper, much more permanent kind of damage that would never fully heal. Joker had done his job too well. As he trudged up the stairs to his room, more parts of his body added to the string of complaints. His legs were on fire from the many miles he had run just before sunrise. His abdomen and lower back had not yet recovered from the many crunches. _At least these pains can be chalked up to exercise_ , he thought sourly. _To improvement._

He HAD made tremendous progress throughout the last six months, that much was undeniable. He had finally gone back to a healthy and nutritious, protein-rich diet and had regained a healthy weight of one-hundred and eighty pounds by the end of the year. Whatever physical injuries he had inherited from his time in the Asylum had healed as much as they were ever going to. Most of them had left scars of varying ugliness which would lighten in time, but never fully fade. Even the J on his cheek, previously deep and red, had started to match the color of his skin as new cells had grown on top of the damaged tissue. The scar had slowly gone from indented to protruding. To strangers it would probably look slightly less ghastly now. To him, it was still an open wound that made him grab a knife or razor each time he stood in front of a mirror, hovering over the letter until the reasonable, strong part of him won and discarded the blade. On Christmas Day, the anniversary of the first time Joker had branded him, they had played that game not once or twice, but four times.

He had also finally gone back to a full-blown exercise regimen and with each tiny fiber of new muscle he had felt a little closer to freedom and a little farther from the Asylum. Thankfully, his muscle memory had survived the torture without major drawbacks and so he had soon found himself kicking ten tons of crap out of random thugs on Soledad’s streets who had mistaken him for just another gringo tourist. The first time the Sunday morning edition of the local newspaper had spared an article on the string of unresolved murders of Soledad’s criminal contingent, he had felt a genuine smile creep onto his lips. He had cut the article from the paper and put it in the same envelope where he kept his forged papers. He did not trust the hotel staff nearly enough to keep them in the room’s safe and so he had hidden the envelope behind the back panel of the bedroom mirror. It was the only good use for the stupid thing. He hated mirrors. As he stared at the one in his bathroom, ready to take a nice, long, hot shower, he found himself scowling at the picture that greeted him. _Too many scars. And still too little muscle._

Yes, he had made progress. He had gone from a wrecked ruin of a whiny teenager to a moderately muscled young man who could beat up and dispose of any common thug on the street, but it was not enough. It was not nearly enough. Any well-trained soldier or law enforcement officer or professional fighter would still be able to defeat him. So would Batman. He needed to be better, stronger, faster. As the water came rushing down on him, the Knight stared at the stupid décor of the bathroom tiles. _Tiles everywhere…_ Tomorrow, the week would be over. Time to raise the exercise count by another ten and add another mile to his nightly route through the streets of Soledad, Santa Prisca.

This time, he stayed in the shower until his skin was red from too much heat. He had had days like these before, when the chill of Arkham resurfaced from some twisted corner of his brain, a sudden and unbidden shiver that went from his bones all the way to the hair on his skin. On his way back to the bedroom his gaze wandered through the window to the ocean, where billions of gallons of bright blue glittered under the rising sun. Part of him wanted nothing more than to go for a swim, to get away from the room covered in tiles, and wash off the sweat in the wide-open sea instead, but that would mean exposing most of his battered body to God knew how many eyes. _Damned if you do, damned if you don’t._

To the left of his bed, his breakfast sat on a silver platter. Omelettes, black coffee and a little painkiller. Bruce would have been proud. He wolfed the food down and pondered the little red-and-white pill next to it for half a minute, before tossing it in the trash. Even now, six months after his escape, he could not be convinced to drug himself. He knew what was in those painkillers and he knew their side effects: fatigue, sluggishness, vertigo, disorientation. He glanced at his right arm where the needle marks had finally faded. Joker and Harley had pumped him full of more than enough drugs to last him a lifetime. He would take the pain with the gain.

The coffee was next. He retrieved the tablet from the locked cabinet next to his bed and booted up the network-cracking program while gulps of caffeine ran down his throat. He wondered how many rich morons in this hotel had checked their bank accounts since yesterday without noticing the Trojan horse on their devices. He added the new user names and passwords to the ever-growing list he had collected and brought up the e-ticket database. Apparently, Mr. Howard Price was currently on a plane back to Minnesota. _You don’t need money in your bank account while you are on a plane, do you, Howard?_ His fingers raced across the keyboard. Two minutes later he clicked SEND in Mr. Price’s online banking account to funnel a whooping five-thousand dollars to the not-so-poor-anymore Mr. Martinez who would withdraw the cash. Mr. Fox would spend it. He had routed his traffic through so many proxies he almost felt sorry for the poor fraud department slob who would have to look at the transaction later. Only when he closed the program did his eyes fall on the date.

_March 21 st._

It was a painfully familiar date that brought back memories of a life he’d rather forget. They mostly involved nights out in some Gotham bars, pretending to get hammered on soft drinks because neither of them were legally allowed to consume alcohol yet, and spending a week’s worth of food stamps on kicker, dart and pool. The first time, Jason had flat out refused, disgusted by what he had believed to be a slanderous waste of perfectly good money. Barbara had tried the gentle, motherly route, telling him that it was not like they did not have some money to spare and that there was no harm in spending excess money on things that were actually fun once you had them. She had obviously seen right through Jason and realized that at least half his resentment came from the fact that no one had ever invited him to play any of the games before. Dick had noticed it, too, only true to his name he had taken the more direct approach of calling him a chicken. _“He’s just scared he’ll get his a-s-s handed to him,”_ he had said it with that disgusting million-watts smirk of his and Jason had risen to the bait.

Thinking of them hurt. Thinking of what they were possibly doing right now, whether they were in the same bars, playing the same games and drinking actual booze – Barb and Dick were old enough now – with the replacement Robin in tow – it made the bile rise up in his throat. “What ARE you up to, Dick?”

He brought up the Blüdhaven Herald and skimmed the headlines. In between the usual bullshit a fresh new article detailing Nightwing’s latest exploits stood out. It seemed Blüdhaven was finally embracing its spandex-clad vigilante with open arms, but then again, what were you supposed to do when some freak was turning sprinkler systems of public buildings into death traps filled with deadly acids while the mob was extorting money from every other city official? He skimmed through a few older editions as well, each page intensifying that nasty feeling of someone rubbing their exploits and HIS failures in his face. Of course Robin 1.0 was the Golden Son, the perfect student. All Robin 2.0 had ever done was getting himself kidnapped. His left hand tightened around the coffee mug. _Cocky son of a bitch…_

His next query went into the BPD Academy’s database. He tried the same login he had used three years ago and was pleasantly surprised to find that Detective Henson had not bothered to update his password. _Bless his heart_. The student database loaded for a moment before bringing up Richard Grayson’s file. Straight-A student. Excellent performance reviews. Spotless psych evaluations. Not a single sick day on his sheet. It made him feel sick to his stomach. At the bottom of the file the words ‘Application for graduation exam June 2013 received’ stood in bright green colors. Only three more months and he’d have the official license to kick criminal ass. _Great…_

The coffee mug shattered as he slammed it down on the tray, leaving the side of his hand cut up and bleeding. He cursed quietly as he retrieved his little supply of medical gear from the bathroom cabinet and started bandaging his hand. Now he would have to give the hotel staff some bullshit excuse for why he had trashed their property. _Splendid._ Then again, since he was already torturing himself with this onslaught of Robin shilling, he might as well go all the way and make it count. Go hard or go home.

The Gotham Herald was doom and gloom as always: crime steady, murders here, corruption there. And yet articles referencing the heroic deeds of Batman and Robin were never far from the onslaught of negativity. He grimaced as he came upon news of more Wayne Enterprises mergers and acquisitions, followed swiftly by a feature piece on Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. “He will be Gotham’s most eligible corpse when I’m done,” the Knight growled. If there was one person who pissed him off more than Batman and his replacement, it was Bruce Wayne. The lie behind the lie.

He had planned to go back all the way to May 2011, but he never made it past December 15th 2012\. His fingers froze over the keys as the headline stared him right in the face. ‘Commissoner’s Daughter Shot in Apartment’. This had to be a sick joke. He had to read the article twice to assure himself that he was not just making this up in his fucked up mind. _Shot to the thoracic spine. Paraplegia_. He imagined Barbara laying in a pool of her own blood, inside her own apartment in the Clock Tower no less, trying desperately to move her legs but getting nothing in return for her efforts. He knew that feeling, the pain, the fear, the sheer desperation of being utterly helpless. _And where was Batman when you needed him, huh?_

 _Not Barb…_ , Jason cried in the depths of his mind. For once, the Knight did not bother to reprimand him. She may have been in on this part-of-the-family joke Batman had played on him. She may have been part of the problem, but at the end of the day, when fate had come for her, she was still just Barbara Gordon. He brought up the GCPD’s database and tracked down the related files. Again, none of the officers whose user names he had used last time seemed to have wisened up. He would have laughed if it had not been for the follow-up notes in Barb’s file. Apparently, James Gordon had received a clown-stamped picture collection of his daughter’s crippling for Christmas.

_Son. Of. A. Bitch._

Had Joker known about her? _Oh God, did_ I _tell him about her?_ Jason was absolutely horrified, but the Knight pushed back his doubts. He hadn’t told Joker a single word about any of their identities, he was sure. And if Joker had been going after Batgirl, he would have addressed that collection to Batman, not Gordon, and he would have dressed her appropriately. No, this had not been an attack on Batgirl. Joker had just gotten lucky.

He barely made it to the toilet before the omelette forced its way up his throat. Why was it always the bad guys who got lucky? Why did it have to be her? Why couldn’t it have been Bruce or the replacement? And why, on God’s green earth, was Joker, this murdering, lunatic pile of death-worshipping garbage still alive? _Because Batman is weak_ , the Knight answered. “Weak and old and too scared to do what needs to be done. But _I_ will fix it.” He flushed down the regurgitated breakfast and downed cups of water until his throat stopped burning from the acid. In the mirror, his face looked both infinitely paler and darker now, except for the brand on his cheek. It was red again. Red and raw and aching all over. He returned to the bed in quick, furious strides and shut off the tablet just in time for the cleaning lady to arrive. “Dropped the mug,” he mentioned half-heartedly as he caught her staring at the shards on the tray. He waited on the balcony, his eyes following her every move as she cleaned the room in record time and removed the tray. When the coast was finally clear again, he went back inside and changed back into his exercise clothes. This was twice that Batman had failed his allies, his sidekicks now. He would pay for all of it.

***

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

After the additional three hours of rage-filled exercise and neck-snapping, the pencil felt both light as a feather and strangely unwieldy in his hand. He stared at the blank paper in front of him and wondered how long it had been since the last time he had sketched anything. He wondered if his hands would still remember how to do this and, given that Joker had broken several of his fingers at one point, whether he’d still be as good at it as he used to be.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

He closed his eyes once more, trying to recall the details of Lucius’ batsuit designs. It had been their ongoing creative exchange – Jason would come up with new designs for new gadgets and Lucius would let him in on modification prototypes and alternatives for existing ones. It was a much better deal than Bruce had ever given him in return for his hard work.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

The pencil came apart with a sickening snap. He stormed over to the god-awful clock by the mirror and all but ripped the batteries out of its back. In his head, Joker’s laughter swelled once more, as it did so often when he was stressed. _Focus, Knight. It’s just a damn sketch_. He sat back down, took a deep breath and reached for another pencil.

The basic body shape came first. _Front. Back. Three-quarters_. He remembered the design had looked like a simple jumpsuit at first glance, with no cape. As he worked his way from the toe to the neck, more details came back to his abused mind. The shin guards on the boots. The design of the utility belt, with longer, slimmer pouches. The straps used to tighten and loosen the jumpsuit. The inter-connected multi-piece armor plating on the back to help stabilize the spine and prevent crippling injuries. The junction points between the neck and the cowl. The titanium-coated gauntlets with their integrated communication and analysis features, not to mention spare mini-batarangs. Come to think of it, Batman and his helpers were nothing but a bunch of walking armories. It was the only thing he really missed about working with Batman. The toys. Despite his best efforts, the Knight felt a smile slip across his lips as his hands raced across the sketching paper, breathing life into a design that had probably long-since been abandoned by Batman. He would revive it and make it his own, just as he had revived this body and made it his own, rising from the ashes of a forgotten, broken boy in the depths of Arkham.

To his left, the list of Batman’s gadgets stared at him mockingly. _Batarangs – only truly effective if aimed at the head. Or used up close to cut someone’s face open_. He would still need to design a proper helmet to integrate cowl vision and communications and that would take care of those as well. _Explosive gel – very heavy armor or very quick feet._ He’d use the most tear-resistant, still maneuverable fabric he could find and teach whoever came with him to stay the hell away from weak walls, floors or ceilings. _Remote hacking device – this will be a bitch to counter._ He was already working on upgrading his encryption protocols and he knew the exploits to Batman’s own gauntlets. Last time Jason had checked, he had found four. The Knight would make sure that his own gauntlets were flawless. _Smoke pellets – helmet, next. Batclaw._ He shuddered as he remembered his first training session with the damn thing. Bruce had hooked it right into Jason’s chest and pulled him forward with such speed that he was sure his spine would snap. Next time he had tried to shield himself with his arms, only to be reeled in once more. He would have to make sure that every part of his suit that did not need to bend would be covered in reflective armor.

Thank goodness for Wayne Tech’s online order system.

He browsed through the list of patented materials. Bruce – or better Lucius and his Applied Sciences division – had been busy. Dual-weave titanium coated armor plating. Just what he was looking for. He tried to ignore the pricing as he scribbled down the patent and article numbers next to the sketch and picked up a new sheet of paper. He would not put a bat symbol on his chest, not even if his life depended on it, even though he was sure it would unnerve Bruce. It was bad enough having one ownership mark on his body already. Still, he needed something flexible to keep off the Batclaw. His mind fumbled for every line and angle as his hands slowly reproduced the gadget to size on paper in various states of opening and closing. In his mind, calculation upon calculation flew by until his fingers finally moved again. If he wanted to deflect the stupid claw, Wayne brand armor coating would not be enough. He drew the curvature precisely to scale, measuring and remeasuring to make sure that everything fit. On their own, none of the pieces would seem suspicious when he ordered them. Only put together would they unfold their potential as a deflective chest plate.

The helmet was next. Bruce had never been a big supporter of helmets. What was the reason he had given him once? Too impersonal? _We do not just want to capture them, Jason, we want them scared. And fear is a deeply personal thing. There is nothing more personal and fearful than looking in the eyes of someone who will not back down, who will hunt you until you surrender_.

 _Goddamn hypocrite_. He wondered now if Batman even knew the first thing about fear. Jason did. The Knight did. Fear was the incessant laughter of a mad clown. Fear was the deranged glint in a man’s eyes as he took you apart piece by piece for no reason other than his own amusement. Fear was knowing that you were powerless to do anything and no one was coming to save you. Fear was the absence of hope.

He would show Bruce fear.

His hands moved as in trance, with no conscious effort behind them. The design came to life slowly, a near faceless mask with elegant curves, the hint of a forehead and a protruding chin. He knew instantly which parts of the interface would hold which sensors, where the cowl optics would be integrated and which chips would be dedicated to communications. When he was done, he held the paper up and imagined the mask in red. It seemed familiar, though he could not quite place it. He wondered what devil had been whispering in his ears as he drew this. Regardless, it was a work of art. All it was missing were bat ears. And a voice modulator, if he wanted to play this game of bat and mouse. Otherwise, he might really as well just try to shoot him and he knew Bruce too well to assume that would actually work. _Second helmet it is then._ It would have the added advantage of protecting the truly important tech from whatever Bruce was going to throw at him.

 _Suit, check. Helmet, check._ He was almost done planning his sabotage of Bruce’s suit and gadgets. Now he just needed to cripple his pesky cowl vision. He had never seen anybody do it before, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. Any signal, no matter how advanced, could be detected, jammed and misled. And he would find a way to do it.

By the time he was done sketching, his fingers had started to cramp up, but his mind somehow felt lighter, more relaxed than it had in a long, long time. He had never even realized how much he had missed sketching. There was something deeply calming about the repetitive, meticulous motion of drawing line after line until it was exactly where he wanted it to be, just as there was something deeply satisfying about seeing the design practically jump from the paper after multiple layers of shading. According to Lucius, most technical designers preferred either the stylized, aesthetically pleasing design of a look or the meticulous elaboration of every single technical aspect, every line, angle, nut, screw and bolt. Jason had always loved both and so did the Knight. It was bliss to find something that they could agree on, just for once.

Outside his balcony the sea was starting to turn purple in the sunset. Fatigue was starting to creep through his bones. He had been awake for thirty hours now. Perhaps it was time to postpone the rest of the cowl sabotage for now. He could fine-tune it once he had actually built the helmet with its own cowl vision. He rifled through his sketches once more and punched the relevant product codes and dimensions into Wayne Tech’s order system. The number at the bottom of the page made him cringe hard. Six million. And that was only for the materials for his suit, helmet and gadgets. He wondered if Bruce would ever have had a chance to become Batman had he not had some very rich, very dead parents first. Sadly, Jason’s parents were only very dead and funneling money from spoiled rich tourists would not be enough to cover this bill. He had to make some big money. The sooner the better. He also needed to figure out how to lock down Gotham and trap Batman. Santa Prisca was full of odd jobs. Finding something that paid fast and gave him access to the necessary information would not be difficult. Finding something that would not get him stuck in Peña Dura would be.

He stowed the papers away in the drawers beside his bed and returned to his tablet. The database that had been labeled ‘Project Savior’ was hidden beneath six layers of increasingly complex encryption. As he logged on and surveyed all the data his traumatized brain had been able to recover, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fell in place in front of him. It would take a lot to bring down the Bat, and Joker too, but he would do it. He just had to be better than Bruce.

To the left, all of Batman’s equipment, allies and advantages were listed in a neat little column. To the right he had entered all countermeasures he had come up with so far. He overwrote the financial and material resources for the suit and helmet, previously only estimates. That would take care of Batman and his gadgets. Now he just needed a battle plan for keeping the roads and roofs locked down. If he had to turn Gotham into a freaking war zone to kill the Bat, he’d do it. His gaze went all the way to the bottom of the table where the total sum of required assets had already reached almost a billion dollars. As he removed Batgirl and all her gadgets from the table, the number fell ever so slightly. Knowing Barbara, she’d still be able to wreak havoc.

_And so will I…_

He glanced at the soft sheets of his bed and felt a mixture of sadness and disappointment well up inside himself. The easy times were over.

***

They called him the Butcher of Montereina. When he had first heard the name, it sounded awfully familiar. It wasn’t until he had filled in the lease for one of the abandoned workshops in La Panza that he realized why. James Gray Martinez had been born in Montereina. Twenty years ago, the Butcher had merely been Andres Manila Ortiz, a disgruntled ex-soldier, dishonorably discharged from Santa Prisca’s corrupt military force for allegedly dabbling in drug trade. When it turned out that he had been set up by Montereina’s officials, Manila had invaded the town, slaughtered every single man, woman and child in the city’s town hall and registry office and bombed both places into oblivion, leaving Montereina’s population a mass of ghosts who did not exist on paper. It was not uncommon to request new birth certificates for people from Montrereina, even to this day. Perhaps his little forger had deserved more credit than he had given to her.

Ironically, the Butcher’s violent outburst had been the beginning of a long and promising career in actual drug trading and weapon smuggling and human trafficking, and the Butcher was always hiring. This time, he was looking for fresh recruits to take down a rivaling drug lord, Felipe Torres Zapatero.

He arrived at the agreed on recruitment site in the abandoned parts of La Panza five minutes early. As the remaining recruits poured in, the Knight all but sneered at the competition. Over-confident street rats, most of them. His rusty Spanish had improved a lot and as their contact explained the basic plan for the operation, he knew why the Butcher had gone for the bottom of the barrel. They were supposed to be diversions, distractions, to give the Butcher time to assassinate Torres. He would be much, much more than that.

They arrived at Torres’ villa just outside of Soledad an hour before sunrise. The Butcher had provided each of his new recruits with a camouflage suit, a machete for cutting through the thick foliage outside of the villa and a simple sidearm. For most of the boys that was enough to feel like soldiers. He watched, disgusted and disappointed, his face mostly hidden by black balaclava, as they cocked their guns and made their jokes on route to the drop off point. Almost all of them would be dead in an hour. The plan was to attack the villa from all sides, killing as many guards as they could and forcing Torres to flee through the helipad on the roof where the Butcher would snipe him from afar. The Knight was determined not to let him get there.

The van came to a stop at the foot of the hill to Torres’ villa. As soon as everyone was on the ground, the driver disappeared into the darkness. The Knight fell back slowly, first a step, then a meter, then ten meters behind his companions. He sneaked through the thick bushes to the base of the radio tower that stood forty meters from the mansion and waited for the mayhem to start.

The first shot rang sharp and clear through the silent night, like the first crack of thunder at the beginning of a bad storm. As bullets started to hail down on the men behind him, he climbed up the tower bar by bar until he was well above the defense wall that Torres’ snipers were occupying. He removed the make-shift line launcher he had assembled from his pocket and set it up to connect to the balcony just below the mansion’s roof. He waited until both guards were out of sight before triggering the gadget and launching himself into the air. Beneath his feet, the bodies of fallen recruits lay sprawled out like broken dolls. The outer walls, inner gardens and lower balconies rushed past him in a matter of seconds. As soon as he dropped onto his target balcony, he climbed up the roof and down on the side just behind guard number one. The man’s neck snapped like a twig. Guard number two followed just a few crouched steps later. He dragged both of them out of the sightlines and relieved the taller one of his uniform before using his access card to slip into the room.

It did not take long to find the access hatch to the roof. Soon the sound of an approaching helicopter broke through the monotony of the building’s alarm system. He watched Torres, dressed in a bathrobe and clearly not fully awake yet, shuffle up the stairs and over to the hatch, two bodyguards in tow. He lowered the access stairs for them, then slipped behind the first guard and broke his neck. This time, the second man actually put up a fight. He dodged the shot and broke the guard’s arm before crushing his head against the wall. “Usted debería investir en mejores guardas, señor Torres.” To his surprise, the fat little man actually tried to fight back by pulling a 9mm of his own out of his robe. The Knight broke his wrist as he disarmed him, before snapping his neck as well. He collected the machete from where he had ditched it during his costume switch and brought it down in one swift strike. As he ascended the stairs to the helipad, Torres’ severed head left a bloody trail behind his back.

The helicopter was waiting on the roof, blades spinning wildly, ready to depart. He approached the pilot with sure steps, one hand holding Torres’ head behind his back, the other clutching his sidearm. “Since when does Torres hire gringos?” The man sneered at him. The Knight sneered back.

“Since when does the Butcher of Montereina have a pilot’s license?”

***

He downed the entire glass of Santa Priscan rum in one chug to the sound of cheers and laughter. Someone patted him on the back, hitting him just on the spot where the crowbar had once broken through the suit and nearly hit his spine and he instantly spun around, grabbing his attacker by the arm and throwing him to the ground. From the other side of the room, the Butcher smiled at him. “Easy, Jamie! It’s just a party!” He turned to one of the two girls that sat by his lap, dressed in practically nothing. “Why don’t you go over there and help him relax a little, Malú?” The girl eyed the Knight in fear, but complied, hesitant steps coming closer. She was shaking like a leaf in the wind. _She is one hell of a smoking hot bomb shell, though_ , the Knight mused.

 _She is also barely fifteen_ , Jason growled.

Working for the Butcher had to have been one of the most mentally exhausting experiences the Knight had ever been through. The Knight had looked at the benefits: access to huge amounts of cash in quick time, a free introduction to military protocols, tactics, strategies and weaponry, during which he had discovered his formerly underdeveloped talent for sniping, and access, though unauthorized, to the Butcher’s vast database of PMCs, assassins and military hardware. Hell, the guy even had Deathstroke’s phone number. He had taken what he had needed, a piece a day, and incorporated it into his own battle plans for the better part of nine months. Now, on New Year’s Eve, he was celebrating the end of a very productive 2013 with the Butcher and his most trusted commanders. They thought they could get him hammered, but he had had enough nights in which he had tried to drown his nightmares to know that it was a futile exercise. At the end of this night, he would be the last man standing and not just because of high tolerance.

As the girl with the insane curves slipped her arms around him and kissed him on the lips, his body froze. It felt horrifyingly weird and insanely good at the same time. Sad as it was, it was his first kiss ever. _And it comes from an underage sex slave, too…_ Jason mocked.

There was the other side of the struggle. Jason had not looked at the benefits. Jason had looked at the pounds upon pounds of cocaine that had ended up shipped to the US where some poor kid’s mother would shoot it up until she no longer knew her son’s own birthday. Jason had looked at the hundreds of girls and dozens of boys that had come through Manila’s base, entertainment for him and his lieutenants before they were sold off to some disgusting fat fuck or another, like pets on a chain. Jason had looked at the invitation to this private New Year’s Eve party that one of Manila’s lieutenants had handed him, a sign that he was now one of only a dozen people who would get to reap all the ‘benefits’ of being in the Butcher’s employ and he had felt sick to his stomach. This was wrong. It was all wrong and it was time he stopped being part of it. He pushed his way through the crowd to the bathroom, the girl following him with all the haste of a captive who knew that disobedience would mean hours upon hours of pain and torture. He knew that feeling all too well.

He threw up the lobster, caviar and rum in the toilet and washed his face clean in front of the bathroom mirror. The J stood mockingly on his cheek. The Butcher had insisted on seeing his full face for tonight. No man was joining his inner ranks without showing his full and true colors. The Knight had complied and in doing so he had condemned every single person in that room to death. He turned around to look at the girl. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes, señor.” _Excellent manners_ , Joker cooed in his brain. Her accent was as thick as the rain forests in the west of Santa Prisca, her voice barely more than a whisper. He would keep it simple then.

“Your name is Malú?”

“María Luisa, señor, sí. But…” She hesitated, eyes desperately trying to look anywhere but his face. “You can call me anything you like, señor.”

“I want you to tell me the truth, María Luisa…” He swallowed hard. “If you had to choose between this place and death…”

She looked at him, eyes wide in shock, her hands balled into tiny fists to stop them from shaking. _She thinks this is a trick_ , Jason thought glumly. He couldn’t blame her. Joker had played games like that with him, too. He knew the feeling all too well. “If you had a choice—“

“I would rather be dead.” Her body was still trembling, but her voice was firm. He looked into her honey brown eyes and saw the same despair that had seeped through him once. The desperate wish for all the pain to be over. To be free of these invisible chains. He put his hands on either side of her head as gently as he could and twisted sharply.

“Rest in peace, María.”

The parts of his flash bang grenade were exactly where he had left them, taped to the bottom of the sink and behind the vent on the wall. He assembled them in a matter of seconds, followed by the parts of the custom hand gun he had built for himself. He had two of them, designed specifically to be assembled and disassembled into tiny inconspicuous pieces that would pass through any airport’s metal scanner without making a sound and which, if both guns were combined, would make for a high-powered sniper rifle. Today, he had only brought one. Today, he would not need more. He retrieved the ammo magazine he had stashed behind the mirror two weeks ago when he had first received the invite, took a deep breath and returned to the party.

The Butcher had handed his second girl over to the rest of his crew. She was long past the point of trying to fight back. They might as well have been trying to fuck a dead fish. He watched in disgust as the Butcher produced a syringe full of glowing, golden fluid from his chest pocket. “A little something one of my friends in Gotham cooked up.” He explained and it took all of the Knight’s self-control not to let his emotions show on his face. _Gotham_ _…_ Anything cooked up in Gotham could not be good. “It’s no fun when there is no fear in their eyes…” Manila explained almost tenderly as he put the needle up the girl’s arm and smiled at her. “Esto te traerá el miedo…” He watched in dread as the liquid flowed into her veins. For a moment, the room was locked in silent anticipation before all hell broke loose. The girl started screaming for her life, calling the men around her beasts, demons and worse and slashing at limbs that weren’t there, arms that were not restraining, flailing like a feral cat.

 _Scarecrow’s fear gas…_ He had heard of the stuff before. He had heard of what had happened in the Asylum after Batman had ‘arrested’ Joker, not that there was any point in trying to lock up the clown in the very place where he tortured his prisoners. He wondered if Batman had recognized it then, if the shoe had finally dropped, but he supposed not. Scarecrow’s fear gas had been nothing but a footnote in the report, but now he wished there had been more information.

In between the men’s cheers, the girl’s screams were like nails on a chalkboard. He watched in horror as she started tearing at her own skin, trying to remove something awful that wasn’t there. Yet. “Let’s give her a reason to be afraid, too.” The Butcher threw her back onto the table in the middle of the room and unbuckled his pants. Jason did not even want to imagine what she was seeing instead of Manila’s face. Somehow, Joker’s hallucinogenic drugs suddenly did not seem so bad anymore. Harley had nothing on Scarecrow.

He put a bullet into her skull to end her suffering before shooting Manila right between the eyes. By the time the other commanders were heading for the gun crate by the door he had already shot six of them. The grenade went off with a puff of red smoke and he quickly emptied the rest of the magazine into the fading cloud. The sound of choked coughs told him that he had missed at least one. As soon as the smoke had cleared, he moved in and broke the man’s neck. The Butcher had outlived his usefulness and Jason was just about ready to lose it. It was time to leave. On his way out, he stopped by the Butcher’s private office, hacked his computer and emptied his twenty-eight million dollars into the Swiss account James Martinez had set up for this specific purpose. It would take a while for the transaction to clear, but he could wait a few more days. Soon, Mr. Martinez would have all the money he would need for his little project in La Panza. And after that, it was time to return to Gotham.


	9. Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman has the muscle, but he always needs a little help. So does Jason. As Arkham City takes shape in Gotham, the Arkham Knight raises his militia in Venezuela.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: PTSD, psychosis, attempted suicide (original characters), original character deaths, swearing  
> Side notes: In-game, there is a watchtower near Cobblepot Manor where you can overhear a soldier talking about how the Knight basically talked him out of suicide, so I decided to explore the Knight’s relationship with his militia in a little more detail.

The last clip clicked into place with a sound so quiet and yet so sharp he was almost certain he had broken something. It wouldn’t have been the first time. As he put away the screwdriver and wiped the sweat off his brows, the Arkham Knight thought back to the beginning of his personal armory project.

The Butcher’s money had arrived in his Swiss account precisely ten business days after he had sent the transaction. He had immediately accessed Wayne Tech’s online order system and punched in the numbers and specifications of the materials he needed, plus some extra for spares. In hindsight, that had quite possibly been one of the best ideas he had ever had. He had broken so many pieces of equipment throughout the last two weeks he considered it half a miracle he had still managed to get six helmets out of it. Next, he had ordered the fabric for the suit from his favorite Santa Priscan army supply store, going with a dark grey and red urban camouflage pattern that would conceal him perfectly as he moved through the bleak alleys and across the illuminated rooftops of Gotham City. The suit and his belt and pouches had arrived first, which hardly surprised him. Santa Priscan customs had a bad habit of tearing every package that might even be remotely useful for weaponization apart piece by piece. Even without the plating, wearing the black and grey had instantly felt strangely familiar and exhilarating, like returning home after a long absence.

The helmets had been an entirely different matter. Just thinking of the many hours he had spent putting together plate after plate, trying to find the sweet spot where the bolts, clips and screws would be tight enough to hold without breaking things gave him a headache. Fitting in all the electronics had been even more of a pain in the ass. Lucius must have had the patience of a saint to be able to deal with this hassle on a regular basis. The only silver lining he could find was that it made his next step – building his own grapnel gun and batclaw, plus the armor plating for the suit – seem like a cakewalk. Of all the things he had built over the last four weeks, the grapnel gun was the only one he had taken outside of the shop. Incorporating it into his daily parcour running exercises had brought back memories and feelings he had not known he had missed, but as he had grappled from building to building in the dark of the night, the sweet, familiar feeling of being free as a bird had come back to him. Some little part inside of him that had never quite grown up wished that that was all he would be doing for the rest of his life. Run. Jump. Grapple. Fly. The Knight had responded by putting the now slightly faded Polaroid picture of Batman and the replacement above the workbench in his little shop and attaching the matted, golden bullet with the reddish-brown splotches of blood on it to a chain around his neck. He would not take it off until Batman and Joker were dead and gone.

The gauntlets had come last. Once more, integrating the electronics had proved to be the hardest part, but at least the casing surrounding them was titanium-coated. So long as he made sure that all the movable, sliding parts were perfectly fitted and greased, he would not have to fear any damage to all the really sensitive tech. He had also made sure to include and update the latest protocols and firewalls he had programmed and he had fine-tuned them to the detection and tracking software Batman was using. Nobody was going to mess with his tech. Not while he was still drawing breath.

He took off the greasy exercise clothes he had been wearing for his tinkering sessions and reached for the camouflage suit. The belts and straps were a pain to work with, but he needed this thing to fit perfectly. The utility belt and gadgets were next, adding a familiar weight to the suit. The gauntlets and shin guards closed shut around his limbs just as smoothly as the original ones had done when he had still been Robin. He walked up and down the small workshop and flexed his fingers tentatively. _Too much wriggle room on the left shin. Slightly too tight on the right hand_. He took the parts off immediately and adjusted the relevant screws and bolts. The anti-Batclaw armor plating fit him like a third skin and he breathed a sigh of relief. Replacing these would have been really, really expensive. He picked up the red helmet and took a deep breath.

For a few seconds he was not wearing a red helmet. He was wearing a black, plastic trash bag. His breath came in short wheezes, his venom scarred lungs burning brightly and his heart pounding furiously in his ears. Sweat was running down the back of his neck and his now heavily armored spine, conjuring up nightmares of Arkham’s chill in his bones. _Calm down, damn it_ , the Knight scolded. _This is not the Asylum. It is not Joker’s bag. You can see. You can breathe_.

He could, too. From the outside, the helmet looked to be solid red, but from the inside all that was left of the color was a slight, translucent haze, a tinge of scarlet, but his vision was sharp as ever. The ventilation slots were working just fine. And yet, some irrational, instinct-driven part of his brain wanted nothing more than to rip the thing off his head. He tapped the fingers of his right hand to the sensor next to his eye and nearly jumped as the cowl vision came online. It was red, not Batman’s blue, but it was working just fine. There was water dripping somewhere close by and he could see the outline of a human skeleton not twenty meters from where he was standing. A second person approached. Through the audio filters the voices came with the tiniest hint of static. From what he could gather, they were trading drugs. _Clean up audio filters._ One more thing for the fix list. He reached for the blue helmet and slid it on top of the red, tapping the sensors that would click it shut behind his ears.

“I am the Arkham Knight.” Same old voice. He activated the voice modulation program on his gauntlet. This would be the only time his gauntlets would be connected to his helmet, outside of the self-destruct of course. He was not going to let anyone take him alive. Not Batman. And certainly not Joker. “I am the Arkham Knight.” Darker, slightly distorted. Better. He started listing the months of the year, adjusting the modulator as he went along. By the time he hit October, there was practically nothing left of Jason’s usual, clear, high-pitched voice. _Good._ The Knight was glad he would not have to listen to that whiny brat anymore. He stepped over to the mirror he had installed for try-outs and milestone checks and finally saw himself in full gear.

When Jason Todd had first donned the Robin suit, he had spent a good ten minutes just staring at his own reflection. Every piece had been custom-made to fit him precisely and yet he had felt strange in it, like it did not really belong on his skin. And it hadn’t. Jason Todd had been a boy. A strong, fierce boy, but also brash and foolish. Batman had turned him into a soldier and sent him off to fight his battles. Had he not seen that the uniform had not fit? Or had he seen it and just chose to ignore it? Now, dressed in camouflage and armed to the teeth, he looked even more like a soldier and even less like Jason.

_Good._

This wasn’t Jason Todd. The bullet felt scorching hot, trapped between the scar it had left and the uniform that covered it. He reached for the stencils he had made and the small can of white paint he had bought for this day and drew the Arkham diamond onto his shoulder guards and chest plate. He was not Jason Peter Todd.

He was the Arkham Knight.

***

As the ship slowly rolled out of the harbor, the Knight settled back on his bunk bed with a cup of black coffee in his left hand and his tablet in his right. It felt strange, being back on a container ship, back on the open sea. It felt even stranger not being a stowaway. This time, nobody had tried to catch him, let alone shoot him. Instead, they had carried his unchecked luggage up into his cabin for him and wished him a safe journey. This time, he did not have to creep through a pitch black cargo hold, breaking into containers while hoping no one would notice just to get some food and water. This time, he had a coffee machine in his cabin and free access to the canteen, as well as most other parts of the ship. He even had his own bathroom. VIP quarters. It never ceased to amaze him how far a few thousand dollars of cold, hard cash could take a man in Santa Prisca.

On the LCD in his lap, the latest reports from the Asylum were slowly loading. Did nobody ever bother to update their security systems, much less their passwords? _Damn amateurs._ Scarecrow was still on the loose. So were Joker and most of the other truly dangerous crazies. Perhaps Batman and the replacement were not as good at this job as they thought. Another act. Another lie. Once he was done with Batman and Joker, once he no longer needed funding, he would clean house. Scarecrow, Dent, Penguin, Riddler, Croc and all the other scum out on the streets of Gotham – they were all dead men walking. Eventually. For now though, he would have to kiss their asses and play the silly muscle for hire. He knew he could do it. It was a part he had played before.

The memories of his last night in the Butcher’s service were as sharp and clear in his mind as they had ever been. The girl’s terrified screams, the horror in her eyes. He pictured Scarecrow putting that needle into Bruce’s arm and smiled. Perhaps it would even work on Joker. He certainly deserved it.

His database search finally concluded with a loud ping. Apparently, no one in Arkham or GCPD had seen a single sign of Scarecrow since Joker had broken out, but the Butcher at least had left a faint trail. The Knight had followed it through a dozen proxies and fake identities and now it was clear as day: the Butcher had provided the tropical bugs, Scarecrow had provided the toxin. Four shipments. Four addresses. If Crane deserved that academic title of his, then he was no longer using any of them, but it was a start. He turned off the tablet, put the empty coffee mug away and stretched out on the hard mattress. Five days to Gotham.

***

It was a jet black, rainy night in late February when he finally arrived in his city, his home. Gotham’s stench and noise washed over him like a flood of murky, grey water. When the security guard at the exit of Port Adams asked for ID, he handed him Mr. Fox’s passport and was pleased to see that he wouldn’t have to dispose of the man. A couple more thousand dollars ensured that smuggling his disassembled weapons, ammo and armor in was not a problem.

He made for one of the little hideouts he had set up in the abandoned underbelly of Drescher all those years ago when he had run from the manor occasionally, an instinctive reaction to the feeling of being trapped and scammed. He had often wondered how much pain he could have saved himself if he had never returned. He might have died on the streets. He might have ended up a crook like his father, but at least he would never have been abandoned to the whims of a mad clown like some unwanted puppy.

The fake boards in front of the paint shop’s door came off without a hitch. He remembered when he had first installed them. They looked like they had been nailed to the door frame, but were actually designed to come off and re-attach. Inside, years of dust had settled on a makeshift bed that was now too small for him to stretch out on and on the heavy wooden box behind the counter that held a meager supply of canned food and a first aid kit. It didn’t matter. For the moment, he would not need either. He slammed the door shut behind himself and set to re-assembling his gear. Fifteen minutes later he was suited up and ready to go. He hid all his valuables in the obscured vent behind the paint shelf. The Arkham diamond shone proudly on his chest and shoulders. Bruce could keep his bats. He flipped down both his helmets and set out to catch himself a crow.

***

It didn’t take him long to figure out that Gotham had changed drastically since the last time he had checked the news, much less since he had last been there. What had once been Old Gotham, the place he had been born in, was planned to become a prison district. Sharp of all people was mayor of Gotham now and his private military forces were all over the damn place. He didn’t know what disgusted him more – the fact that Sharp was now in control of part of HIS city or the idea that someone had stolen at least part of his idea of locking down the city and was now preventing him from going there without ending up in a thousand crosshairs. If Sharp had been doing his name even the slightest bit of honor, he should have just bombed this precious little Arkham City to hell and gone. An Asylum by any other name was still a madhouse. And Sharpie certainly had the firepower.

Surprisingly, the first former Arkham inmates had already been ‘confined’ to their little retreat. Among the scum that had not yet set up shop again, one name stood out in particular: Joker. Apparently, the Clown had not yet seized the opportunity to carve out a nice piece of the prison cake for himself. He wondered what was keeping him, how many torture chambers he could possibly have had set up in there already and what kind of games he would possibly have been playing with the henchmen of rivaling criminals. If the chatter his new helmet picked up was to be believed, injecting himself with his own, mutated venom variant, Titan, had not been the Clown’s smartest idea. Word was he was dying a slow, ugly, painful death. _Good._ He just hoped Joker would survive long enough for the Knight to find Scarecrow. Once he got his hands on that toxin, the Knight would make him pay for every single moment of terror and pain he had had to endure. _Four-hundred and forty-two days. Ten-thousand six-hundred and eight hours. Six-hundred thirty-six thousand four-hundred and eighty minutes._ He would suffer for each and every single one of them and so would Batman.

His next stop had been Wayne Tower. He needed to know just how outdated his own intel was by now. A quick look through his cowl vision told him that Lucius’ office was empty. Perched on top of a roof opposite the building, the Knight activated the network cracking protocol in his gauntlet and hijacked the camera feed to fool any watchful eyes before cracking the security protocols and slipping into the office. The cold hum of Lucius’ computer brought back distant memories. He knew this place like the back of his hand. Sitting at the heavy wooden table felt almost like being back in the suit. The sooner he could get out of here, the better. By his own estimates, he would have about half a minute at best before someone noticed his intrusion into the network. On the holo display of his helmet, the numbers flew by too quickly for his eye to catch them. At last, the words ‘Access granted’ appeared on the screen in front of him. _Sixteen seconds left._ He was pleased to see that, while the encryption protocols had been updated twice since he had last been here, the file structure was still the same. Most of it was either business- or case-related, research databases and crime-scene analyses – none of which he cared about. There were only two things he wanted from this PC: the latest prototypes and recent additions of hardware and software.

Through the audio systems, Barbara’s voice came loud and clear as he patched himself into the com feed. The other voice, one he did not recognize, referred to her as ‘Oracle’. _A new name for a new identity, because the old one was too broken to fix._ He knew that feeling. “Do you think it would kill him to say ‘thanks’ every once in a while?” The male voice sounded positively annoyed and yet resigned to his fate.

Barbara’s reply was a mischievous, yet empathic chuckle. “Trust me, Tim, we’ve all wondered that at least once… The sooner you just accept that—” _Thirty-eight seconds and counting._

“Barb, what’s wrong?” The download was at ninety-two percent. It would have to do.

“Someone’s in the system!” _Didn’t see that one coming, did you, ‘Oracle’?_ He activated the kill switch on the virus that had given him access and cut the link, before exiting through the same window he had used to enter and grappling off into the comforting shadows of the nearby alleys. _Tim._ The replacement. The beta target. He wondered how long it would take them to show up.

The answer was two minutes and fifty-one seconds. He waited patiently in the darkness as Batman and his new Robin grappled into Wayne Tower to assess the damage. They would find that someone had hacked the system. They might even see which files he had gone through. However, given that he had only taken information out of Wayne Tech’s Applied Sciences division, it might even pass as industrial espionage. If they were any sort of smart, Lucius would have a retina scanner on his screen by this time tomorrow.

He spent the rest of his night analyzing the data he had gathered. To his surprise, there had been neither new additions to the utility belt, nor significant upgrades to the Batmobile and Batwing. The Bat suit and Robin suit on the other hand now used significantly more resistant materials than they had in his time. Perhaps Batman really had learned something after all. He brought up the ‘Project Savior’ database and adjusted the relevant numbers.

***

By the end of April his patience had worn paper thin. Scarecrow was still alive. He could feel it in his bones. Finding the damn bastard though had proven to be an exercise in futility. He had combed through Gotham from Arkham Peninsula to Crest Hill, from Bleake Island to Blackgate, but still had not been able to find a trace of the self-proclaimed Master of Fear. With each day that had passed, the Knight had found himself staring at the calendar in ever-colder anger. There were so many other things still to be arranged, to be prepared. Only one good thing had come out of this trip: he now knew that there would be enough people willing to pitch in and finance his army. Penguin, Two-Face, even Lex Luthor, who had never met Batman as far as the Knight knew, had huge bounties on the Bat’s head, if you knew who to ask. He glanced at the remaining twenty-two million dollars in his back account and decided that it was time for plan B. If he could not find Scarecrow, at the very least he could use the remaining time on his travel waiver wisely and start recruiting.

The Butcher’s databases had provided him with a healthy list of several hundred highly capable ex-soldiers and private contractors, plus the means to build an ever-evolving macro which the Knight had set up and which combed military databases of two dozen countries for promising candidates discharged due to concerns about dishonorable behavior or doubts of mental and emotional fitness. ‘Medical discharge’ they usually called it. It was a bureaucrat’s way of saying ‘suffering from PTSD and tired off this shit, so we’re not footing the treatment bill’. The Knight had studied each profile carefully. If he wanted to kill the best, he would have to bring the best. It had taken him the better part of May to filter the list, take his picks and then personally invite each of them to Caracas, Venezuela, from where it would not be far to the largest of the Butcher’s hidden bases of operations. Each invitation had come with a slight financial incentive and most of them had been accepted gracefully. Some had been rejected. It was regretful, but inevitable. He could always try again later. It was the four that were lacking replies that bothered him.

When he had first started looking for work, he had learned one thing: rejection is brave, silence is foolish. There were few ways that were more certain to royally piss off your potential boss than to not even dignify his invitation with a response. Perhaps these four men were thinking he was too small a fish to put their hands in the fire for. Perhaps they had thought it was a joke. He would make sure they’d learn it was neither.

***

Tracking the silent rejecters had proven to be easy. Two had been stupid enough to try and get cocky. All they got was dead. One had kindly informed him that he was no longer in the business, wanting to start over fresh. He had even returned the money. The Knight had begrudgingly accepted his refusal with a tinge of anger. That only left one man to track down: Keith Hadley.

Chicago’s lights shone brightly in the dark of the night. As he followed the integrated map of his blue helmet and grappled from roof to roof, he couldn’t help but wonder if this city had its own Batman. Metropolis and Keystone certainly did. If the answer was yes, he hoped he would not encounter them. When he finally arrived at his destination, the Knight couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. Hadley had received a medical discharge with highest honors and generous retirement compensation, yet this must have been the worst neighborhood in all of Chicago. From the dirty, dogshit-covered streets to the graffiti-covered walls with the occasional blood splatter on them everything about this place just screamed poverty and crime. It was like being back home in the Bowery. Whatever had happened to Lieutenant Hadley after his discharge from the army, it could not have been pretty. He landed on the run-down building’s rooftop, climbed down to apartment 406’s fire escape balcony and activated his cowl vision.

There was only one person in the little hole in the wall that Hadley called an apartment. The former soldier was sitting hunched over on his bed, loaded gun in hand and pointed at his own chin. His heartbeat and blood pressure were through the roof. The Knight readied one of his guns and broke through the door.

Hadley’s Beretta switched targets instantly, but one look at the man’s face told him that it was highly unlikely he’d pull the trigger. “The fuck are you?” Hadley’s voice was a dark, growling mess that screamed defeat. The Knight glanced at the battlefield of empty bottles and cans sprawled out on the floor. “And what the fuck are you doing in my home?”

“Saving your sorry ass, apparently.” He kicked one of the empty bottles over to the soldier. “Bit of a sad end for a war hero, don’t you think?”

Hadley’s laughter sounded more like a dying man’s last breath. “War hero, my ass! Is that what they call it in my file?” He switched on the phone next to his bed and brought up the email. “You’re the one that sent me that little invite to Caracas, aren’t you? Arkham Knight?” He lowered his gun slowly and pointed the muzzle at his own face once more. “I’m through with all this spec ops, black ops bullshit. I’m sure you’ve got replacements and spares, so why don’t you just move on to the next one on the list.”

“There is no next one.” He understood now and the feelings that rose inside him made the J burn like molten metal on his cheek. He hated mirrors. “It feels like everything you did was one big joke, doesn’t it?” He lowered his own gun slowly and slipped it back into the holster behind his back. “Like it was all a big act and everyone was in on it except you.” Hadley’s head rose slowly. “And you wonder where the hell you went wrong, because you did everything they wanted, right?” He could see the pain in the soldier’s eyes, even as the memories wormed their way back into his conscious mind. “I know that feeling. I know what it’s like to be betrayed.” That much was definitely truth. Why was he saying it now? To some random soldier no less? “You bust your ass to make the bloodsuckers happy, you go through hell and back again and THEY drop you like an unwanted puppy and replace you with someone else.” Hadley’s hands were trembling now. What had the report said? Nearly two months trapped in some terrorist group’s prison camp until another unit bombed the place and he got out through sheer luck? They had found him then and they had informed him that his original unit, the one whose asses he had been covering had long since received their deserved exfil. “Well, I want YOU. I don’t want spares. I don’t want replacements. I want you.” He stepped forward and gripped the barrel of the gun in his armored fist. “I want you to join my militia. I want you to be the expert marksman we both know you can be and once my operation is over I will gladly help you make every one of those sons of bitches that abandoned you pay.”

“And here I thought you’d just come to get your money back.”

The Knight snorted at that. He could practically see the gears turning in Hadley’s brain. “If I want money, I’ll just hack the nearest bank.” He’d done it in New York on his way to Chicago, during a stopover. Even Santa Prisca had better network security than half the outdated banking systems in North America that he had come across. Mr. Martinez was very grateful for another five million dollars he had received from various accounts. “But good soldiers are hard to find and I want the best. So…” He let go of the gun. “What do you want to be, Keith Roland Hadley? A betrayed, broken, abandoned mess or a valued member of a hand-picked force of the best?”

Hadley’s eyes focused on the barrel of the Beretta. The muzzle stared at his eyes, practically begging him to pull the trigger. “If I say yes, who’s the target? Your message only said ‘preparation for the takedown of the century’. Who exactly will we be taking down?”

 _Will. Not would. Will._ Behind the mask, the Knight smiled. “Batman.”

***

He arrived in Caracas two weeks before any of his men were scheduled to. With the exception of his first pilot, Robinson. The grizzled, bearded soldier greeted him with a firm handshake and took the plane off the ground as soon as the Knight had strapped down. They had worked together under the Butcher before. The Knight was pleased to see that Robinson held no grudge about the self-imposed, violent promotion. He watched in quiet fascination as the pilot’s hands raced across the controls. This was one of the few things the Butcher had not been able to teach him and while he had sat inside the Batwing once, Bruce had never let him steer. He’d have to ask Robinson to teach him.

The facility was hidden deep in the jungle, only slightly worse for wear than when the Butcher had last used it. He remembered the last time he had set foot in here. Back then, he had been the grunt and Manila the boss. This time, he’d be in charge of everything. The task was both thrilling and daunting. The logistics had been a nightmare. It was one thing getting eight-hundred and fifty-four soldiers into hidden training facilities unnoticed. It was an entirely different beast making sure that everything from the kitchens and the bathrooms to the armory and the gyms would be fully stocked. As he slipped into what had once been the Butcher’s private quarters, his first act was to tear down the mirrors and replace the bed sheets. He knew what had happened in this room and he wanted no part of it. If it hadn’t been the only single-bed room in the facility, he would gladly have slept somewhere else. He rewired the door lock to patch in a finger print scanner and set up the rest of his electronics on the metal desk. The calendar above was all wrong. He replaced it with a fresh one of the correct year and ripped off the pages until he had reduced it to July 2014. On his left cheek, the J started acting up again. Almost two years later and his skin still crawled every time he thought about the damn thing, but at least now he was getting closer to the day he’d finally get payback.

As the troops rolled in day after day, the Knight set to planning out the details of his schedule. There were three facilities he’d have to monitor, two in Venezuela and one in Columbia. He really needed that goddamn piloting experience, if he wanted to change location regularly, so he would be able to teach each and every single one of his men how to beat the Bat. He glanced at the schedule he had laid out on his workbook and frowned. 08:00 to 12:00 training in groups. 12:00 to 14:00 cowl counter measures and drone designs and try-outs. 14:00 to 20:00 individual training. 20:00-22:00 evaluation of individual training results. 22:00 to however long it would fucking take – following leads on Scarecrow and monitoring general developments in Gotham. This was going to be a nightmare.

***

The timer on his gauntlet pinged loudly. 08:00 hours. Time for the first training session, preceded by the grand introduction. He took a deep breath and put on the helmets. He hated speeches. Jason Todd had never been an extroverted guy. He had loved to boast and he had loved to be cocky, but he had hated crowds and even more so public speaking. The Knight hoped the stupid brat would stay quiet for this. He approached the main training room with sure steps and took one last sighing breath before pushing open the heavy steel doors.

The room was silent almost instantly. There was one thing to be said for working with a host of ex-soldiers and seasoned mercenaries: as soon as the commander was present, every man in the room was standing straight, shoulders squared, silent as a grave. _Well, almost everyone._

Through the amplifiers in his audio filters he could hear hushed whispers of ‘Jesus Christ’, ‘holy shit’ and ‘he looks just like the freaking Bat’ from several directions. Thankfully, all of them had the good sense to shut up immediately. He took his place on top of the podium and crossed his arms behind his back.

“Welcome to Venezuela, men.” He caught the quick flashes of the heart rate monitor as his eyes scanned the room. Some of these men did obviously not yet have the required nerves of steel. He would need to rectify that. “You are all here because you are the best of the best. Each and every one of you was hand-picked for this operation. Throughout the next few months, I will assess your skills and personally train each and every single one of you in the tactics and cheap tricks employed by our alpha target: Batman.” That caught a few more murmurs from the back of the crowd. He would have to pry the assigned numbers from his helmet’s monitors later and beat some respect into the men in question. “Make no mistake: this is not a college course and I am NOT Batman. You will train every day and you will train hard. You will show me the best you’ve got. If you fail me, I will bury you in the dirt. If you don’t, you will get to join the best of the best in taking over Gotham, bringing down the toughest son of a bitch that ever got the idea to play the hero and you will get to enjoy your very own generous retirement package. But for now…” He descended from the podium slowly and marched straight into the cluster of soldiers in front of him. Up close, their eyes betrayed their emotions. He went for one of the few genuinely good poker faces in the crowd. “… for now, I will assess your skills. You, soldier, what’s your name?”

“Chapman, Ryan, sir!”

“Everybody else, ten steps back.”

The crowd around him complied in near-perfect unison, leaving him and Chapman surrounded by a circle of curious eyes. He turned back to the soldier. “Attack me, Chapman.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Attack me. Try to kill me. Now!”

The man flinched at the growl in his voice. To his credit, he recovered quickly and moved into a fighting stance.

The battle was over before it had really begun. _Good coordination, but too slow_ , the Knight mused as he caught Chapman’s arm and swept his legs out from underneath him. While Chapman landed on his back and groaned loudly, the Knight looked around for his next target. The blonde soldier at four ‘o clock looked just about ready to piss his pants. “You! What’s your name?”

“Stevens, sir!”

“Attack me, Stevens.”

***

The bright, colorful assortment of lights looked positively ridiculous, strapped across the many bars and hurdles of the training room. Not to mention the fake mistletoe on the piping along the ceiling and the candles lining the floor grates. In the middle of the room, a bright, flashing arrow pointed to the center of the little maze of fake cover and breakable objects. He had hoped to be able to spend this day exercising by himself, running, jumping, beating the crap out of punching bags. Anything, really, to distract from the scorching pain in his left cheek and his nightmares. Clearly that was not going to happen. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to set this up and the Knight had a feeling he knew who it was.

Probably the entire goddamn compound.

Throughout the last six months he had spent more time in this room and the combat training hall than anywhere else. He had kept true to his plans and his word and had trained each and every single soldier himself. At first, his men had been apprehensive about the micromanagement approach, just as they had been apprehensive about his lack of social interaction. He never joined in the card games or the movie viewings. He had not even joined them for the beginning of the big sports season. Most importantly, none of them had even seen him with the mask off and he had been happy to keep it that way. He wondered if they knew that the blue helmet had a direct connection to the base-wide surveillance system or that the transmitters in his ears also acted as receivers and allowed him to pick up whispers from fifty yards away. There had been plenty of those, whispers, murmurs, rumors, some more accurate than others and he had been careful not to confirm or deny anything the few times someone had tried to weasel some information out of him. Soon some of the whispers had turned into bemoaning, complaints and thinly veiled hostility. He had been close to cracking a few skulls. Hadley had gotten the jump on him.

“He never shows us his face” Vargas had been complaining over his plate of mashed potatoes in the cafeteria. “How can you trust a guy who doesn’t even have the balls to show you his face? For all we know, he might be one of them damn meta-human types. I’d rather work for one of them Gotham nutcases than for a faceless freak with temper issues and a bad case of bat-envy.” Hadley’s fist had connected hard enough then to knock out two of his teeth and send the audio receivers in the Knight’s bat ears ringing. He had instinctively run his tongue over the spot where Joker had once hit him with the crowbar. He had had the teeth replaced eventually, but now the pain was fresh and hot again.

“Shut the fuck up and sit your fucking ass down, you whiny son of a bitch!” Hadley was fuming. “Doesn’t matter if he won’t show us his face. Has he ever missed a pay check? Has he ever done anything to any of us that we didn’t deserve?” The cafeteria had gone quiet. Hadley had looked around, spoon in hand as if it were a combat knife. “Because last I checked, we’ve all got paid on time. We’ve got food that’s actually edible and tastes like something. We’ve got dorms with beds that have actual mattresses and bathrooms that actually have hot water. We’ve got the TV room to relax, we’ve got five amazingly equipped gyms to work out in. We’ve got uniforms that actually fit, guns that actually work and a commander who _personally_ trains each and every single one of our goddamn asses! And yeah, if you fuck up, he’ll break your goddamn arm. Guess what? You deserved it! Man up! Oh, and we do actually have a well-stocked infirmary with medics who actually know what the fuck they’re doing, so don’t give me any shit! You wanna go tuck your tail in and run back to Uncle Sam or work for that clown-faced lunatic or any of those other whack-jobs in Gotham, be my guest! But leave the commander out of it and get ready to get my boot in your face when we take the city!”

It was the first and last time the Knight had ever seen the cafeteria so quiet he could have heard a pin drop. The masses of soldiers had parted slowly as he had made his way through the crowds to where Hadley was still holding Vargas at spoon point. “Didn’t know you had that in you, Hadley” the Knight had said. _Didn’t know anyone cared that much_ , was what Jason had thought. He had felt… flattered? No. What was that word when someone appreciated you, no strings attached, simply for who you were? It tasted like something he had known and lost a long time ago. Eventually, he had pushed the thought, the feeling onto the back burner and turned to Vargas. “Do you have a problem with me, Vargas? Because if you do, I’d prefer to hear it _directly_ from you.” He had watched the downed soldier shrink against the floor. _All bark, no bite_. “That goes for all of you,” the Knight had shouted as he had turned around to the rest of the crowd. “You are men, not little sissies. If you have a problem with me, you talk to ME. If you have a problem with this operation, you talk to ME. If you have a problem with anything that affects your ability to do the job _I_ am _paying_ you for, you talk to ME and you tell ME what’s going on. No small talk, no bullshit, no excuses! The only time I want you tip-toeing around me is when I hand you your sorry asses in your daily stealth and infiltration training. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir!” The sound of nearly three-hundred voices shouting in unison had almost killed his audio receivers and burst his ear drums. He had made a mental memo to himself to implement decibel caps next time he took off the mask. All around him, his men had been waiting for his next command. He had rolled his shoulders to alleviate the pain that had been starting to build up in them. “Good. As you were!”

The memory left the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. That day had been the beginning of a vast improvement in troop morale, as his men had slowly started approaching him with their concerns. The first had been Gardener, requesting to be moved to another dorm because, frankly speaking, one of his roommates was a homophobic asshole with an itching trigger finger. The Knight had approached the man in question, Carter, in the middle of the cafeteria, beaten the crap out of him and made it very clear to everyone that he would not tolerate any discrimination on grounds of race, religion, nationality, sexuality or any other trivial bullshit in his army. One warning was all anyone would get. True to his word, he had snapped Carter’s neck when he had come after Gardener again. When Stevenson had informed him that most of the men where starting to go crazy cooped up in the jungle, cut off from the rest of civilization 24/7 for months, he had decided to let everyone have the last week of the year off. When Richmond had asked for extra-leave outside of that to attend the funeral of his sixteen-year-old son who had been run over by a drunk driver, Jason had expressed his condolences, given him a week off and paid for his transport to and back from Missouri. When Lieutenant Sasahara had come into the cafeteria one day, proudly holding up a picture of his new-born baby girl on his phone, he had bought everyone a round of good scotch. He had learned, in time, who had lost how much in which battles, who was buried so deep in financial troubles they had targets on their back and who had loved ones to get back to. And in time, the murmurs had receded.

Now, as he made his way through the light-filled, yet eerily empty gym, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy and sadness at the fact that everyone of them had homes to go back to, families to spend the holidays with or, at the very least, some sort of life outside of Operation Savior. Wasn’t that all Jason had ever wanted? Some place warm and safe he could come back to, with people who actually cared for and appreciated him and a sense of purpose outside of survival?

“Get over it, you cry baby,” The Knight growled as he pushed his way through a hedge of tinsel and Christmas lights to the center of the room. “You have a purpose: kill Joker and Batman and end the fucking nightmares.” The gift box underneath the glowing arrow was wrapped in paper that matched his suit’s camouflage pattern to a T, adorned with white ribbons and the Arkham diamond. He was half expecting to pull a little puppy out of it.

To his surprise, the box was nearly empty. Disappointment wormed its way up into his chest. It faded as soon as he picked up the small box inside and ripped off the lid. Someone had gone through the trouble of baking him cookies. The scent of cinnamon and cardamom wafted through his helmet’s olfactory filters and up his nose. Every single fist-sized cookie was shaped like a bat with two chocolate Xs where the eyes should be. Against his better judgment, he opened his visors and bit off a bat’s head. “Riley, you son of a gun…” This was definitely Riley’s work. He didn’t know of any other soldier in this base that could cook up something so delicious, much less bake something worth the time. He eradicated the rest of the bat and reached for the card at the bottom of the box. Beneath the words ‘Merry Christmas, sir! Your real present is on the helipad’ hundreds of crude little signatures covered every inch of the heavy paper. _These guys…_ He folded the card, put it in with the cookies and flipped his helmets back down before storing the box in his private quarters.

The helipad was almost as silent as the compound had been, plus the noises of the waking jungle. It was almost time for sunrise. In the middle of the pad, Robinson was waiting in his full pilot gear, leaning non-chalantly against one of his two-man choppers. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

“What the hell are you still doing here, Robinson?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as beaten as he thought it did. “I gave you the week off, remember?”

“And I appreciate it,” Robinson sneered back. The old, grizzled pilot had a no-bullshit-allowed attitude that never ceased to please the Knight. It even made him ignore the occasional insubordination. “Except I don’t have no family to visit and I’m thirty years beyond getting hammered with those other whippersnappers, so I decided to save your sorry, lonely, commanding ass from spending Christmas Day cooped up in that dungeon.”

“How kind.” Part of him did appreciate the gesture, but mostly he really just wanted to punch somebody. “Don’t tell me you’re the present.”

Robinson laughed at that. “Nah, the boys don’t hate you _that_ much.” He patted the helicopter as if it were a large dog. “This is your present.”

“It’s already mine.” He _had_ paid for the chopper just like he had paid for everything else, although technically he had taken the money from the Butcher and many, many others. _Not like he’s gonna need it…_

“And what good is a chopper if you don’t know how to fly?” Jason’s eyes lit up like a kid’s face on Christmas Day. _It is Christmas Day_ , the Knight scowled. He wondered if something was wrong with the helmet’s tinting, because he could have sworn Robinson had noticed the gleam as well. The old fox was grinning ear to ear. “Get your ass in the pilot’s seat. We’re going for a spin.”


	10. Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the fall of Arkham City, Jason finally manages to track down Scarecrow and form an alliance. Neither of them knows that it is the beginning of the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: PTSD, psychosis, alcohol abuse, drug abuse, swearing  
> Side notes: Based on Scarecrow’s audio logs, Deathstroke’s City Story ‘Contingency’ and the games Prologue in Pauli’s Diner. Every single piece of dialogue from the game was transcribed directly from the game.

_THUMP._ The last of his men ended up flat on his back and groaned heavily. The Knight flexed his aching shoulders and tried to ignore the familiar chill as the sweat made his suit cling to his back. Even without the plating, the fabric was heavy enough. All around him, moaning soldiers slowly got back onto their feet.

They had improved a lot, he had to give them that and by now all of them knew about proper mine-laying and thermobaric charge bombing of grates, but most of them were still too slow. All around him more men were watching. Half of them had already gotten their asses kicked today. The rest seemed to have their stomachs in their throats just waiting for him to call their names. “Parker, Patricks, Pearson, Price, Prince and Potter.” He watched them step forward with looks that basically begged for pity. He would have none. He was halfway through taking them down when the door to the hallway burst open, revealing a very winded, nerves-in-tatters Anderson. The Knight caught Pearson’s baseball bat as it came swinging for his head from behind and brought it down hard on Pearson’s knees. He didn’t turn to watch the soldier go down in pain. “Where’s the fire, Anderson?”

“News from Gotham.”

He could feel every hair on his back bristle. This could not be good. He snatched the phone from Anderson and replayed the podcast. Vicki Vale’s voice came loud and clear through the hands-free speaker system. With every word the Knight felt his fingers tighten around the flimsy phone case. Protocol 10, failed. Arkham City, gone. Sharp, impeached and demoted. Batman, savior of Gotham. _Naturally._ He wondered if Bruce was aware that every crook in the city who still had half a working brain would soon sue Gotham into oblivion. “Furthermore,” Vicki’s voice continued, “we have confirmation from reliable GCPD sources that at least twenty percent of Arkham City’s inmates have been either killed or severely injured during the execution of Protocol 10. Most notable among the reported fatalities, long-time career criminal and self-styled Clown Prince of Crime, the Joker, has been confirmed deceased by Commissioner James Gordon.”

Joker.

The name bounced around inside his skill, drowning out the rest of the podcast. This could not be. Joker was dead? For real, confirmed, irrefutably dead?

 _Thank God!_ Relief washed over Jason. He had lost count of the many, many times he had wished for that monster to finally croak. He had lost count of the nightmares, the flashbacks, the memories that haunted him every day and every night.

 _It’s a lie._ The Knight didn’t buy it. Joker did not just ‘die’. He couldn’t. Joker belonged to him, just as Jason belonged to Joker. HE would be the one to kill him. No one else. To his left, Pearson raised an eyebrow at his fellow soldiers. “Wow. So the Bat finally got the Clown, huh? Good for him.”

 _Batman. Bruce…_ _That self-centered, lying son of a bitch!_ How many times had Jason practically begged him to kill Joker – just Joker, just this one walking, talking time bomb – only to be shot down? And now, NOW that it was all over, NOW that Joker had already ruined him, Bruce had finally gotten that moral stick out of his ass? He wondered what crime had been so terrible for the valiant Knight to break his own oath. _Probably went after Robin 1.0 or 3.0,_ _the Knight mused_. _God knows he didn’t give a single fuck about the middle child_.

The phone cracked and bent in his crushing fist. With a howl of rage that sent his soldiers jumping in shock, Jason threw the device against the nearest wall, where it shattered into dozens of little pieces. _Was it too much to ask?_ He reached for the dropped baseball bat and brought it down hard on the table that held everyone’s water bottles. The table top cracked like a raw egg. _All I wanted was to kill Batman and Joker._ The next swing fractured the bat. He was still screaming as he tore down the rack with the weights. _But Bruce couldn’t even let me have that one, oh no, no, no, no. He just HAD TO play hero once more!_ He had dreamed of the day he would kill Joker. Every once in a while, when his brain had granted him the mercy of having one good dream among the nightmares, he had dreamed of how he would douse the clown in fear gas, before slowly killing him piece by piece. He had dreamed of that bleached face coming apart underneath his fists, of breaking those thin ankles over and over with a crowbar, of pushing the scorching iron down onto a white cheek, of drills, hammers, saws, pliers, acids, drugs and salt and absinth in open wounds. And now, Bruce had taken even that away from him. He had taken his chance for revenge, for closure.

His throat was raw, his scarred lungs burning like the pits of hell by the time his arms finally tired. He stood in the middle of the trashed training room, a battlefield of broken equipment, cracked walls and damaged floors. His men had been wise enough to clear the room. Most of them had seen his rage before and come out of it with a few cracked bones. This time, they had been smart. He stormed out of the room with quick strides. Something in his right thigh flashed in bright, red pain. It wouldn’t surprise him if he had injured himself. From behind the closed doors of the dormitories he could hear hushed whispers. Some were concerned. Some were annoyed. Some were just praying that they would live long enough to see him cool down again. He nearly destroyed the keypad as he punched in the access codes to his quarters and slammed his hand against the finger print scanner. As the door closed smoothly behind him, his helmets shattered against the wall behind his bed. He all but ripped the suit off his back and stepped into the shower. All over his body, scar after scar came back to life with hot anger. They looked and felt as raw and repulsive as they had when he had first gotten them. The J was the worst, a burning, sizzling mess that sent waves of pain through his entire head. He turned the tap all the way to the left and slumped against the wall in sheer exhaustion as the water turned from fire to ice and the chill of Arkham seeped back into his bones. He could feel every single scar on his back as he slid down to the floor until he was sitting on the tiles, knees drawn up to his chest, in a hammering hail of ice. The bullet felt scorching hot against his chest.

Alone with nothing but the memories and Joker’s laughter, Jason cried.

***

He awoke the next day, in his bed, with his head pounding furiously and empty bottles littering his nightstand. How and when he had gotten out of the shower and into the sheets he could not remember. What he did remember were the tears, hot and salty against his freezing skin. He hated Jason. He hated his weakness. He wanted no part of it.

The suit was still in one piece, by some miracle. The two helmets were not. He frowned as he salvaged what he could and threw the rest in the trash. Good thing he had spares. He recalibrated the sensors in the replacement set and slipped into his masks. There was no point crying over spilled milk. If Joker was dead, that only meant that Bruce now had his undivided attention. For now, he would need to get up to speed on what had happened since his rampage.

To his surprise, everyone was still accounted for. No bail-outs. As he made his way through the various training rooms, several heads rose in curiosity and slight trepidation and occasionally he even saw someone salute. Mostly though, everyone seemed to be happy to stick to their training and not look at his face. _Good._ He did eventually manage to track down Anderson and put a replacement phone into his hand. The lieutenant accepted it with a confused, muttered ‘thank you, sir’ and went back to training. No crying over spilled milk, indeed. He had almost finished his round when he received a ping on his gauntlets. _Please let this be good news!_ He slipped into one of the many storage rooms and brought up the holo display. It was a search algorithm he had set up months ago that had finally come back positive.

Scarecrow was alive. Sometimes, miracles did happen.

***

His second time returning to Gotham was by no means easier than the first. Apparently, someone at GCPD had ordered increased security checks for smuggled weaponry. He’d have to be very careful smuggling his army in.

His little hideout in Drescher was still as undisturbed as it had been on his last visit. Not too far down the road, Killinger’s Department Store lay abandoned in the sickly, amber lights of Founders’ underbelly. He slipped in through a maze of manholes and vents and surveyed the forgotten mall. This place would make for good headquarters, if only he could get it cleaned up without anyone noticing. Repair drones, perhaps. He would have to tinker around with some designs once he had time. For now, he had to go after Crane.

He followed the lead all the way back to Chinatown and crawled into the abandoned office through a half-broken vent. On the surface, the place looked spotless, but the Knight knew better. The trap door showed up nicely on his cowl vision. His fingers curled around the release mechanism. Part of him wanted nothing more than to bolt. Even now, more than two years later, the thought of going underground through a trap door still made the hair on the back of his neck bristle. _Focus, Knight!_ He slipped into the lower chambers of the safehouse, quiet as a shadow.

The lab was empty, but not abandoned. Crane must have been using several of these, moving from place to place to avoid detection, but he had been here. There was no doubt. _Canisters of fear gas, check. Isolation chamber, check. Blood on the wall, definitely check._ “Where the hell are you, Crane?” He booted up the computer in the corner only to find its hard drive woefully empty. He was about to leave when his gaze fell on one of the bloody scribbles on the wall. His body froze. He recognized the symbol. It had been all over the floor and walls back then.

***

Every step, every swing with the grapnel gun felt like a mile of walking barefoot over hot coals. In some tortured little corner of his mind, he was not following random blood patterns, but the actual blood of innocent little children. He was not tracking Scarecrow. He was tracking Joker.

Arkham Asylum lay before him once more, abandoned, overgrown and supposedly empty, but he knew better. The Asylum was full of buried, abandoned cells. Thankfully, Crane was not in one of those. The energy spike in the mansion would have been obvious to anyone who set foot on the island with a cowl on their head, but he knew that this was the last place Batman would ever look for anything or anyone. He got in through a broken patch of the mansion’s ceiling and made his way down to the halls with catlike tread. His helmet showed two guards, armed to the teeth with semi-automatic guns. Not a problem.

He threw a broken tile into the far corner of the room and watched as one of the guards checked out the noise. The second man hardly had time to react as the Knight landed in front of him and snapped his neck. He shot the other one in the head, approached the heavy door and gave it a good kick. The wood gave way instantly, revealing Crane lounging by his desk, patient notes in hand. If it hadn’t been for the ugly, mask-covered face and the ridiculous clothes, he might have passed for a real psychiatrist. “You should invest in better guards, Crane.”

“And you should invest in some manners.” Crane eyed him with what could only be described as mild annoyance. “Who are you? Another pretender to the cowl?”

 _Another?_ How many caped freaks were there in this city, outside of Batman and Robin? “Call me the Arkham Knight.”

“Another child of the Asylum set free. Tell me, what tortured soul cowers behind that mask?”

He didn’t know what concerned him more: the fact that Crane seemed to show the same interest in him as a snake in a mouse or the fact that his description was surprisingly accurate in every way. _We should get out of here_ , Jason urged, but the Knight tuned him out. He needed Scarecrow. Jason could cower in the dark. He would not. “It doesn’t matter who I am. I am here because we want the same thing: Batman dead.”

That only seemed to amuse Crane. “You made short work of my guards, but Batman is an entirely different proposition.” He tapped the vials on his coat gently. “One for which I am fully prepared.”

“Those ‘guards’ I killed?” He hesitated to call them that. He had seen kids with more brains and brawn than these guys. “I could replace them with an army. An army trained in his methods.”

“Trained by whom?”

“Me.” His greatest achievement: an army of trained Bat killers. Soon, it would be his second-greatest.

“And what do you know about Batman?”

“His fears.” There it was – the glimmer of genuine interest in Scarecrow’s eyes. Underneath his helmet, a smile stretched across his lips. He had spent so much time with the lunatic bundle of chaos that was Joker, he had completely forgotten how most of these idiots were utterly predictable.

“Very well.” At last, Scarecrow put down the notes and leaned forward. Once more, the Knight was happy to have his helmets. It was only up close that the truth could be seen. It was not a mask. It was his face. Croc must have done a really good number on him. “You have my attention, Arkham Knight.”

The Knight retrieved the empty can he had picked up in Chinatown. The time had finally come. Time to close the deal. “There are only two things Batman truly cares about: punishing the guilty that are plaguing Gotham and staying in control of everything and everyone involved with him. He is paranoid and obsessive. Even his back-up plans have contingencies, but they all rely on a few very specific things: good tech support, an unchecked sky, alleys to hide in and maneuver through the city, and access to his toys and gadgets. Corner him, trap him, and you take away that advantage, his control. That is what I have been preparing for over the last two years. All I need is someone with good, long-lasting standing and credibility in Gotham’s underworld to convince these scattered fools to work together and pitch in some money.”

“How much money?”

“Three billion dollars.” He watched Scarecrow’s brow, or what remained of it at least, furrow in annoyance.

“Three billion is a significant investment.”

The Knight sneered at that. He had done his homework. Prices and bounties had only risen. “People are willing to pay.” The last time he had checked, someone had been offering him almost a hundred million dollars to kill the Batman. And if they weren’t willing to be talked into paying, he still had two very convincing arguments strapped to his back.

“And what exactly would we be getting for our money?”

“Tanks, drones, a highly trained infantry.”

“You think you can just bring tanks into Gotham?”

His trigger finger itched. He wanted to shoot this son of a bitch in his ugly face. What was Scarecrow thinking? That he had come here without a plan? His mind wandered back to the map plastered to the wall above his desk in Venezuela. He had planned it out precisely – how many bombs, drones, watchtowers and road blocks he’d have to place where in order to lock down the city and make speedy travel impossible, even for the Batmobile. He had been working on this for almost two years now. “We hold the city ransom. We create panic, then chaos.” _And we also conveniently empty the city of pretty much any and all civilians._ His original plan had not considered the civilian element at all. To the Knight, they were no more than collateral. To Jason, they had been everything. Still afraid to make sacrifices. Still whining. But relenting this once and adjusting his plan just a little was certainly easier than having to put up with his complaining if there were still civilians left in Gotham.

Scarecrow seemed to understand as well. “A distraction.”

“As they run scared, we emerge, take over his habitat. Every rooftop, road and back alley. We draw him out of the shadows and chip away until he has nowhere left to hide and no one left to hide behind.”

“Ah, yes, his ‘tech support’…” A hint of a smile crept across Scarecrows lips. “How can I be sure that you truly know as much about Batman as you say you do?”

 _He wants her name._ He could feel Jason’s protest well up inside himself, but the Knight was not going to have it. Not this time. He had shut up and suffered for it when Joker had asked that question. He was not going to piss off the man with the fear gas strapped to his body. The fear gas he needed. “Her name is Barbara. She is a genius. Hacked her way into Batman’s main base of operations when she was only fifteen. She also has eidetic memory recall. Most of Batman’s work behind the scenes – analyzing samples, following leads, researching information – is done by her. Taking her out of the picture will not only cripple him. He is protective of her, cares for her. He won’t show it, but it will rattle him.” _For God’s sake, stop!_ Jason was screaming in his head. He watched as Scarecrow seemed to mull this new information over in his skull, integrating it into his own plans no doubt. “I know where to find her”, the Knight finally continued. “When the time comes, I will make sure that she won’t be lifting a finger to help Batman.”

If Crane had any thoughts on the matter, he was not sharing. Instead, he seemed to be studying the Knight as if he was a new patient, a new lab rat. “If you want him dead, why come to me? You seem… capable.”

“He needs to suffer.” Another thing he and Jason did not agree on. Jason just wanted him dead and gone, just like he had only wanted Joker dead and gone. “I suffered, so he will, too.”

“So it’s personal!” Scarecrow’s eyes lit up with excitement. Part of him couldn’t shake the feeling of being a fish that had just been hooked. If Crane was going to try to make him tell about _how_ he had suffered, he really would shoot him. Those memories were between him, Jason, Joker and Batman. “There are many in this city with a gift for causing harm.”

“Not that kind of pain.” The torture, the beatings, had been a cakewalk. That was not what had broken Jason and killed Robin. “The real kind.” The burning of a mark of shame, disgust and ownership that would never truly heal. The persistent chill of a cold, forgotten cell. The incessant laughter of a mad clown as a constant background noise in his brain. A brain, a soul, so deeply scarred and traumatized not a single pitch-black night passed without nightmares.

“Ah, you want him afraid.” Crane made it sound so harmless. It wasn’t.

He thought back to the nameless girl, to the madness and terror in her eyes. He thought back to a drawn-out scream over the sound of sizzling flesh. To the feeling of being hopelessly lost and abandoned, forgotten in the dirt. “I’ve seen what your toxin does. I want that.” He watched, his stomach tied into a hundred knots, as Crane took the canister of fear gas from his hand and turned it around slowly.

“You are well informed about all of us, Arkham Knight. But you are wrong about something. I don’t want Batman dead. I want him unmade.”

“He’s better off dead.” Batman had already taken Joker from him. If Crane thought he could take Batman, he would make him regret it.

“Kill him and you martyr him”, Crane explained calmly. “But break him, terrify him and hold him up for the world to see – then he is nothing but a man.”

The Knight agreed. Jason did not. “Look, you can do what you want, Crane. But when you’re done, I _will_ kill him.” This was not negotiable. Crane would agree or he would have to look for a new link into Gotham’s criminal network. He was not ready for that. There was enough crap going on in his head already.

“Very well.” _There is a god._ “But know this: it will be an act of mercy when you do.”

_No. It will be an act of salvation. For me._

“I shall arrange a meeting with the others then. I presume you will want to be present.”

“I insist.” Part of him really did. It would be fun watching Gotham’s most dangerous criminals dance to his music for once. It would also make disposing of them once Batman was dead all the easier. He removed an inconspicuously black, phone-sized communicator from one of the pouches on his belt and handed it over. “This will patch you through directly to me. I will stay in Gotham for a little longer, but I have an army to take care of elsewhere.”

He didn’t wait for Scarecrow’s answer. In between the chill of the Asylum creeping onto his skin and Crane’s eyes still studying him like a little bug on a dissection table, he had had more than enough for one night. He was almost out the door when he turned around to find the mad psychiatrist smiling at him with satisfied assuredness like he had not seen since Joker had fed him poison cake. It made his skin crawl. “Don’t make me wait too long, Crane.”

***

The little mechanical spider came to life with a quiet buzz and skittered off onto the nearest wall to help its brethren clean up the abandoned mall. The robots had done good work over the last four weeks, repairing broken power lines and piping sections as well as cleaning the rubble off the floors. It had felt good to be working on a harmless, not Batman-related tinkering project for a change. He had also used the break to finally draw up designs for the devices that would track, jam and fool Batman’s cowl vision. Still, he was glad that the wait was finally over.

Scarecrow had taken his sweet time arranging this meeting, but the Knight bit back his complaints as he made his way back to the Asylum and fell in line behind Crane. Today would be the day he’d either get his three billion dollars or kiss Operation Savior goodbye. He needed to be perfect. Which mostly meant that he needed to be the Knight, not Jason.

The meeting had not even officially started yet, but even so he could already hear Gotham’s criminal leaders hack away at each other. Penguin and Dent were getting along wonderfully as always. However, it was the third voice that made him freeze just shy of the door. “You’re a real couple ‘o bozos, you know that!”

 _Harley fucking Quinn._ In hindsight, he should have expected her to be here. He knew she had taken over the gang after Joker had died. It was only logical that she would be invited to this meet. What was not logical was the way his body suddenly refused to move, paralyzed, or how the J on his cheek suddenly exploded into fiery pain, or how Joker’s constant laughter in his head suddenly grew loud enough to drown out the other voices, or how he could have sworn he was seeing the healed needle marks on his arm right through his suit. _Jason, get lost. Knight, get a grip!_ He couldn’t have it. Not now. This was entirely the wrong time for a panic attack.

“Yeah, yeah, we all fear Batman. Tell us something we don’t know.” Penguin sounded ready to walk.

Two-Face on the other hand seemed to ooze confidence. “Like how we kill him.”

“That’s my job.” _Damn straight it is._ He forced his feet to move and followed Scarecrow into the meeting room, only to be greeted by half a dozen loaded guns. Apparently, every single one of the three idiots in front of him had brought their own guards. He would still be able to kick ten tons of crap out of them if he wanted to.

“Is this a joke, Crane?” Two-Face growled.

Penguin’s umbrella tapped against the floor furiously. “Are you bringing one of those bat-fanatics into our turf now? Do you think this teenage Wanna-Batman is going to scare us?”

“Oh, I’m not here to scare you Cobblepot.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the door frame. _Not yet anyway._ “I am here to kill Batman. I have spent the last two-and-a-half years devising a plan to bring him down and I have an entire army of highly trained soldiers at my disposal.”

“You couldn’t have come here a little sooner then, could’ya?” Harley sounded positively heartbroken. This was new. He had seen her hyper, happy, angry and disappointed, but never depressed. “Maybe then Mr. J would still be alive.” _Alive, chained up in a dungeon, with a broken ankle, a branded face and pumped full of fear gas._ He was glad to have the mask. The sneer would have ruined this muscle-for-hire act.

“Oh, get over it, fruitcake!” Penguin was obviously just as fed up with her whining as the Knight was with Jason. Cobblepot turned back to Crane. “Looks like you already have the muscle then. What did you call us here for?”

“You are here because it takes more than brute force to bring down Batman and his allies and because bringing an entire army into Gotham is neither cheap nor easy.”

Scarecrow’s patient explanation was met with Cobblepot spitting at his feet. “So you’re here to bleed us for our money, is that it?”

“How much?” That drew shocked looks from almost everyone in the room. Harvey flipped his coin in between his fingers. “How much to kill the Bat?”

“Two billion.” The Knight was about to protest when Crane held up his left hand. The one without the syringes. “I have already come to an agreement with a mutual benefactor to cover part of the total sum. Two billion is what remains for the four of us. That would be half a billion each.”

“Done!” This meeting was just full of surprises. In Harley’s eyes, hatred burned darkly. “I want to see that flying, little rodent splattered across the walls from Chinatown to Arkham City!” The Knight had to give her credit. For someone who had been a madman’s lackey for years she could be surprisingly decisive.

“If your army fails, all of us will be penniless,” Harvey reasoned.

The Knight frowned. “They won’t fail. Neither will I. This operation will end only one way: with Batman dead and his head mounted on my wall.”

“The Knight is not the only one who has been preparing for years.” He watched as Scarecrow walked over to the projection screen on the far side of the meeting room and hit the switch to raise the white canvas. Behind the screen, a window of bullet-proof glass revealed three thugs cornered in an isolation chamber, one of each crew. The gas streamed down slowly from the ceiling, an amber cloud of doom. Within a few seconds two of the trapped men were clawing each others’ eyes out in panic while the third one huddled in a corner, screaming at things that were not there. “When I am done, the very myth of Batman will be worth nothing at all. The world will see him for who he really is: nothing but a man, powerless, impotent, afraid. His legend will die with him.”

The Knight watched Penguin stab out his cigar in one of his men’s hands. “Half a billion it is then.”

***

He had finally done it. As he watched the crates upon crates of high-grade weaponry being unboxed in his headquarters in Drescher, the Knight couldn’t suppress a smile. To his left, fresh new pictures of Batman and the replacement surrounded the faded Polaroid on the wall next to the surveillance map. It had taken him months to ship all the drone and tank parts into the city through Gotham’s various ports, piece by piece, and then hide them in the forgotten corners of Founders and Miagani, just as it had taken Penguin months to get all their guns, grenades and ammo smuggled into the city, but now it was finally done. To his right, his men were busy unboxing the cowl vision trackers, jammers and camouflage units he had spent six months designing and building. “Be extra-careful with those!” This was brand new technology. All his. He had hand-built each piece and hand-picked each soldier who would carry them. If anyone broke HIS gadgets, heads would roll.

He threw his knife into the picture that had once killed Robin. October 1st. Four weeks from now, Batman would be dead. Maybe then the nightmares would finally be over.

His communicator beeped twice, reminding him that it was time for one more meeting, one more recruitment. The cherry on top, so to speak. As much as he hated having Scarecrow there, he couldn’t have done any of this without the help of the mad scientist who was now his client. Only thanks to him had every major threat outside of Poison Ivy agreed to play along with his plan of hitting Gotham on Halloween. Penguin had needed some reminding, but that had been more of a warm-up than a challenge. “Sergeant Grant!” He watched the man approach with sure steps. It had taken him a while to pick a second-in-command from the many capable soldiers he had brought to Gotham, but Grant had proven to be the one most skilled in handling the drone tanks. He needed someone who could multi-task. “Make sure that all remaining shipments are properly stored and assembled and all men are accounted for. I want a full report on my desk by 22:00 hours.”

“Yes, sir!”

As Grant shuffled off to his new task, the Knight rode the elevator all the way to the top of the building. He could feel the presence of his visitor long before he saw or heard him. He blocked the downward slashing blade with his left and brought his right around for an uppercut. His attacker dodged masterfully and went in for the counter. Three minutes of skilled back and forth later, there was still no winner. “You _are_ as good as Batman always used to say.”

“Did he now?” Deathstroke sheathed his sword slowly and stood up straight. He looked relaxed, but the Knight knew better. This man was constantly on alert. A real killer. A true professional.

“He used to tell me that you were the toughest son of a bitch he ever went toe to toe with. I was hoping I would get to meet you one day.”

“Flattered, but I don’t do autographs.” Deathstroke’s eye scanned the rooftop quickly before zooming in on the right-hand walkway. “Are you still lurking in the shadows, Crane?”

“Are your hands still trembling every time you think of how he defeated you ten years ago?” The Knight watched from the sidelines as Deathstroke shot his client a glare that could have melted steel. It was like watching a scorpion bully a viper. Either they would both survive this or he would be down a client _and_ a potential assassin ace-in-the-hole. “Revenge. That is what you seek. I can give it to you.”

“WE can give it to you”, the Knight corrected. He’d be damned if he let Crane take credit for the entire operation. “I have spent the last three years building an army to corner Batman. Scarecrow has spent the last two years perfecting his toxin. In between the three of us, Batman won’t stand a chance.”

He watched the gears turning in Deathstroke’s head, but he did not worry. He had met enough professional killers to know that, if he were to say no, he would have left already.

“How much?”

These helmets were the best idea he had ever had. Now Deathstroke would not get to see him roll his eyes. He hated bargaining. “One-hundred and fifty million. In advance. Just for you.” Quality did have its price after all.

“Deal. But I want to see that army of yours. I have worked for enough amateurs to last me a life-time.” _Ignore the bully._ He wanted to put his fist through Deathstroke’s face. Instead, the Knight heeded Scarecrow’s nod and led the assassin down into the headquarters. For the next two hours, he had the dubious pleasure of having Deathstroke compliment on his choice of equipment and explain to him how he had only mildly fucked up certain tower and road block placements. He supposed from a man with such a long service record it was probably a compliment. He still wanted to shoot him, but relayed the new coordinates to his units nonetheless. He had learned a long time ago not to look a gift horse in its mouth.

***

Behind the thick glass window, two of Harley’s men dangled from the meat hooks attached to the ceiling. The Knight couldn’t help but smile as he watched Scarecrow attach the fear gas cylinders to each chamber’s ventilation system. They weren’t Joker or Harley, but it still felt a little like poetic justice. Crane stepped into the left chamber slowly and injected the man with an emerald liquid from a third vial, before sealing the chambers tight and pushing the button on the ventilation system. The gas seeped in slowly. Soon enough, the man on the right was thrashing and howling in fear. The man on the left, while disturbed by his friend’s fate, was nowhere near terrified.

“The neutralizing agent is an unavoidable byproduct of the manufacturing process”, Scarecrow explained as he watched the right man’s heart give out. “For every gallon of toxin only a single ounce of neutralizing agent is produced and it only lasts for fifteen minutes. Do not waste it.” He tucked the vial with the remaining fluid and the syringe that Crane handed him into the backpack that held the rigged fear gas canister, ignoring the anger in his client’s voice.

Jason had not been happy, but Scarecrow had insisted that he prove his loyalty, his worth, by initiating the chaos, the distraction. The Knight had agreed on the condition that he would be the one to pick the place and that he would be guaranteed a counter measure for the toxin. Scarecrow had not been happy to reveal this secret, this weakness, but he had kept his end of the deal. An hour from now it would be the Knight’s turn. The nightmare was almost over and hallelujah to that. Every other meeting he had had with Crane had ended with them arguing over the same thing: secrets he had refused to reveal. Batman’s true identity. His helpers’ true identities. The Knight’s true identity. He was just waiting to see which one it would be this time.

“You still have not told me the full name of the asset.”

There it was. He steeled himself for the inevitable protest from Jason. “Barbara Gordon.”

“The Commissioner’s daughter?”

“The same.” In the deeper corners of his mind, Jason was fuming.

“Interesting”, Scarecrow cooed as he went into the little chamber to the left and injected the survivor with a full vial of toxin directly to the blood stream. The man’s body started twitching, his heart failing to keep up with the onslaught of chemicals. “I wonder what secrets _she_ might reveal about Batman.” _Ignore the madman. Ignore the madman. Ignore the madman._ “I think just half an ounce should do it.”

His armored right hand shot up instantly, grabbing Scarecrow by the collar while his left restrained his syringe-tipped hand. “Let me make myself perfectly clear, Crane…” He brought Scarecrow close enough to see every stitch in the surgery-marred face. “You are welcome to pump Batman full of this stuff. You are welcome to subject him to every single tinge of fear and pain you want, but you will NOT put a finger on Barbara Gordon! I will extract her from her hideout and take her to headquarters and there she will remain until your little game with the Commissioner and Batman is done. If I find that you harmed but one hair on her head, I will make you BEG for my bullets. Do you understand?”

From the depths of Scarecrow’s cut off airways, a dark chuckle answered. “So quick to defend her, but not Batman. You really must hate him.”

“Stay. Away. From. Barbara. Gordon.”

The timer he had set on his gauntlet reminded him that there were only forty-five minutes left. He released Crane reluctantly and stormed out of the Asylum’s administrative building. He hoped his men would remember their job, their orders. He had instructed each of them to keep her unharmed, regardless of Scarecrow’s orders.

Grappling back to the Botanical Gardens took him all of twenty minutes. He slipped in through the top floor, stashed his guns and gear minus the backpack in one of the gardening supplies boxes and retrieved his civvy clothes from behind one of the larger, potted plants. Brown pants, grey shirt, red hood, black vest. It all fit well enough, yet he felt like a complete stranger in his own body. With a deep sigh, the Knight removed his helmets and hid them among the plants. Now, equipped only with his grappling gun, the two vials of orange and green, a syringe and a burner phone, he felt truly helpless and naked for the first time in a long, long while.

The streets of Grand Avenue were bright and busy as always and he hid the left side of his face in his hood as best as he could. Scarecrow had insisted on a public place with lots of collateral. The Knight had insisted on somewhere with as few cameras as possible. Jason had pleaded and begged him not go through with this. _To hell with Jason and to hell with Batman._

Pauli’s Diner was the perfect compromise. Always busy, but only one camera. And always frequented by the same cop for his 9 pm dinner. Officer Owens. He slipped into the shadows of the nearby alleys. Ten to nine. Time to roll. The syringe filled up slowly. Even in the dark of the alley the neutralizing agent had a sickly green glow to it. He rolled up his sleeve and cursed quietly as his trembling hand held the needle just above the vein. _It’s not a hallucinogen. It’s not a paralytic. So unless you want to gas yourself, just do it, you sissy!_ He cringed as the cold metal went in and pushed down the plunger. The liquid was cool in his burning veins. He stashed the needle in the left front pocket of his vest, put a band aid on the wound, pulled down the sleeve again and grabbed the bag.

Inside Pauli’s, patrons were busy chatting away between the Halloween decorations. Come morning, most if not all of them would be dead. _We should not be here,_ Jason complained. _We should just turn around and leave._

 _And you should just shut up!_ The Knight strode over to the booth in the far left corner and slumped down on the bench, the bag on the table and the phone in his right hand, careful to turn his face away from the crowds. The fake gas cylinder inside the open bag snapped open at the push of the 3-key on his phone, releasing its perfectly non-toxic fumes into the air. All around him Joker was laughing. The timer on the phone’s display ticked away with terrifying certainty. _Two minutes past seven._ Every second felt like an eternity. Where was that stupid cop now that he needed him? His left hand twitched in anticipation.

“Excuse me, sir.” _Well finally!_ His finger hovered over the 1-key. _Please don’t_ , Jason begged. “There’s no smoking in here.” His thumb slid over the key. Inside the bag, the release mechanism of the fear gas can clicked, spewing the toxic contents out of the bag and into the diner’s air. As he rose and grabbed the officer by the uniform, the Knight could see the terror in his eyes. Part of him wondered what he looked like to Officer Owens right now. Could he see the J? All around him, terrified screams erupted from the crowds as the ventilation system dispersed the gas throughout the diner. The Knight threw the cop to the ground, grabbed the empty bag and climbed over the bench on his right and the counter to the kitchen. Inside, one of the cooks was slaughtering his way through his colleagues in fear. He wrestled the cleaver from the man’s hand and knocked him out before running out the back door. He didn’t stop until he was back at the Botanical Gardens, where he switched back into his full suit and gear and dumped the clothes and backpack into the waters of Gotham Bay.

Every motion of his body felt disjointed and mechanical as he grappled across the rooftops. He had no idea where he was even going until his feet touched the center pillar of Mercy Bridge. The end had finally begun.


	11. Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phase One was a go. Blow up the factory. Kidnap Oracle. It should be easy, but nothing ever is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: PTSD, psychosis, swearing, non-consensual drug use  
> Side notes: Almost all dialogue in this chapter comes directly from the game. Half the time writing this was spent tracking unit numbers and making sure that this would not become a case of ‘Writers Can’t Do Math’.

Six million people. Twenty-four hours. He had to give GCPD some credit: the evacuation was a masterpiece of crisis management. Too bad it was not going to make any difference.

The Knight watched silently as his men loaded canister upon canister into the mixing chamber. By the time they were done, there would be enough toxin to cover the entire eastern seaboard of the US in fear gas. Just like the Knight had withheld Barbara’s full name, Scarecrow had withheld the full scope of his plan until the last minute. Crane had been ecstatic when he had explained his master plan. The gleam in his eyes as he talked about the chaos to come had reminded him of Joker during his torture. Jason had recoiled in shame and horror at the realization of what he was about to unleash. The Knight had not cared. There was no war without casualties, no freedom without sacrifices. By the end of tonight, he would be free. Free of the memories, the nightmares. Free of Joker, Batman and Jason. Scarecrow would be next, then Harley, then the rest. _And then Gotham will be mine_. He had been wondering what he was going to do with Barbara, Alfred and Lucius when the communicator in his helmet came to life with a buzz. It was one of the units near Scarecrow’s safehouse in Chinatown. “We’ve got the target, sir. He’s cornered.”

 _We’ve got the target._ Those were the sweetest five words he had heard all year. Part of him felt like it was too good to be true. Especially since he had recently discovered that Batman seemed to have acquired a new worshipper in Arkham City. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“Confirmed. It’s Batman.” _Finally!_ He brought up the live feed on his visor, watching as the tanks rolled in. He was not surprised to watch them lose. What _was_ unsettling was just how quickly it was all over. Apparently, the Batmobile had been upgraded significantly since he had last hacked into Batman’s network after Arkham City. He turned to Crane. “Batman has found the warehouse in Chinatown. It won’t take him long to find his way here either. What’s the status on the toxin?”

“Patience, Knight.” That patronizing tone again. He hated it when Scarecrow did that. “Everything will be in hand soon. I trust that your men will be able to distract him a little longer.” It was half a question and an obvious one at that. Another thing he hated about Scarecrow – his constant belittlement and the underlying insinuation that he, the Arkham Knight, was not ready for this and never would be.

“You just focus on your chemistry set, Crane. I will deal with Batman.”

He made his way back to the loading bay in quick strides. Robinson was waiting for him by the chopper, his pilot helmet in one hand, cigar in the other. “Do I have to explain to you the stupidity of _open fire in a chemical plant_?”

“No worries, sir.” Robinson grinned at him through his bushy beard before holding the cigar out into the heavy rain where it was soaked and quelled in a matter of seconds. “See? You never told us this city was one big natural sprinkler system.” He patted the red helicopter as if it were a big dog. “She’s all ready for you, fresh fuel, fully stocked on missiles. Happy hunting, sir.”

 _Happy hunting indeed._ He slipped into the seat, strapped down and lifted off into the rainy, dark night. This model was slightly different from the one Robinson had taught him in, to incorporate the remote control system and more firepower, but it felt familiar enough. As he rose higher and circled the island, his mind returned to the training facilities in Columbia and Venezuela, now lying empty and abandoned in the jungle. Whoever found them was welcome to them. Everything was in place here. Tonight would either be his greatest triumph or the death of everything he had dedicated the last three years of his life to. He would NOT fail.

Gordon and his men arrived first, but the Batmobile was not far behind. It blended in seamlessly with the dark asphalt and the steel bridge, just as he remembered. As Batman and the Commissioner approached the entrance to the factory, his thumb slammed down on the trigger. He watched the bridge come apart into hundreds of pieces and pictured what it would do to a Bat.

 _Time to find out._ He circled back between the gates and the road. Batman was approaching him unflinching, all scowl and cowl as always. The picture brought back long-buried memories and for a few seconds he could have sworn he had seen a whiny, little street rat with a red suit and an R on his chest striding behind him. _Never again._ “Time to die, old man.” His finger pushed down hard on the trigger, but nothing happened. The sound of the flashing system override message drilled into his brain while Scarecrow’s ugly face sneered at him from the secondary monitor.

“In death, he has nothing left to fear. Keep him away from ACE Chemicals. Your vengeance will come.”

Scarecrow was right. Death was too kind, too quick, at least from the Knight’s point of view. Deep inside, Jason was furious. It didn’t matter. “This ends tonight.”

He retreated back to the facility. If he couldn’t trust Scarecrow not to mess with the controls, then he would just have to go to the command center and watch him like a mother hawk. He was halfway there when Crane’s status update flashed on his helmet. He patched into the facility’s speaker system. The militia broadcast would have done the trick, but he wanted Batman to hear this. He wanted him to feel the anticipation of a soon and certain doom. His first lesson in fear. Chances were Oracle had already hacked into his network, but he was not going to leave anything to chance. Not tonight.

“Listen up: Scarecrow tells me the reaction is nearly complete. Final evacuation of this facility will begin in T minus thirty minutes.”

It was also a convenient way of making sure that every idiot in his army got the message. He would need every single man. _I wouldn’t, if Crane hadn’t stopped me from pushing the fucking trigger!_ Rage swelled inside of him. It was one of the very few parts of Jason that the Knight did not mind having in his head. Rage could be a source of power, of strength, and Jason had more than enough of it. “I had him in my sights!” He growled through his communicator. “I could have ended it right there!”

“We had not broken him yet,” Crane replied calmly. “It will come.”

“No, I’ve waited long enough. Batman dies. Tonight.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

There it was again, that sudden shift from demanding client to inquisitive psychiatrist. How many times had they played this game by now? He hated Crane and his psycho-analytical bullshit. What made it worse was that he couldn’t have told him, even if he had wanted to. There were no words to describe the utter feeling of abandonment, betrayal and hopelessness to someone like Crane, someone who placed not an ounce of value on things like home, love and family. “You could never understand.”

“Your revenge is at hand.” Like a parent talking to a child that had just had a bad nightmare. _Great._ “This is his last night.”

 _That_ at least they could agree on. As he pushed open the doors to the command center and shooed one of the controllers from his station, all he could feel was pure hatred. “I’ll make sure of it.”

***

The diamondback went offline with a burst of white static. Around him, his soldiers looked at the screen in unveiled shock. It was Sergeant Grant who voiced what they had all been thinking. “Sir, he punched through the armor. Just like you said.”

 _Just like I said._ The Knight sneered. He had spent what? Fourteen months training these idiots and they still didn’t see that coming _? Pathetic._ So far, Batman was behaving just as planned. “He’s searching for hostages. Keep non-essential radio chatter to a minimum. He’ll be listening.” With a deep breath, the Knight switched to the city-wide militia channel. Every soldier in his army would be able to hear this and so would Batman and his allies. “You are listening, aren’t you, Batman? Then listen to his: To all embedded units in Gotham: Operation Savior has begun. Each one of you has a role. Each of you KNOWS your role. So move out into this damn city and lock it down! I want our hands wrapped tight around Gotham’s throat within the hour!”

Through the comms network of his blue helmet, reports started pouring in from Founders and Miagani. The numbers tallied up quickly as each drone and watch point came online. It had taken months to smuggle all the pieces into Gotham, but he knew every single back alley, every hideout in this city, better than Batman ever would. It would only take a few minutes to complete the puzzle. He wondered how long it would take Batman to find the two hostages he had ordered his men not to kill. Most of them had protested, trigger fingers itching from months of anticipation, but he needed at least one of those worms to make it through the night in order to hook a Bat. He had barely left the command post when the frightened voices of the guards came through the audio receivers against the backdrop of a crumbling wall. He really needed to wreck that car. By the time he got there, all his men were down and out for the count. His reinforcements went in first, spreading out with their guns ready to tear through the enemy. He slid down into the room with a deep breath.

Up close, he could see that the car had not been the only thing that had received a serious upgrade. Bruce hated weapons and he had never been a fan of rigid armor plating outside of the gauntlets. He wondered what had made him change half his mind at least. Now was the time to show him just how screwed he really was.

“Keep your guns trained on him. If he even looks like he’s planning to leave that room, open fire. Oh, and avoid the Bat symbol. That’s a… a little trick. That’s where his armor is the strongest.” He had told all of this to his men before. Still, many failed training sessions in which he had played Batman had taught him that some lessons were always worth repeating. “Aim for the weak spots at the shoulders first, then coordinate fire at the points where the plates meet.”

“Please.” Such a simple word. The most useless word in the world, as far as the Knight was concerned. It had never saved Jason. It had never saved him. It would not save this idiot either.

“Did you say something?”

“Leave him out of this.”

Apparently, Batman had not learned that lesson yet either. He would teach him. “Always defending the weak and the helpless. That’s what I like about you. Predictable!” _And a lie, a joke, an act_ , Jason growled. But no one was going to fool him this time. Not him and not the Arkham Knight. “That’s why we are going to win. We know your every move before you do. We know how you think!” His hands slammed against the glass. He wished it had been Batman’s, Bruce’s face.

“Do you know what I’m thinking right now?”

“Of course.” The Arkham Knight couldn’t help smiling underneath his mask. “You’re thinking ‘Who the hell is this guy?’”

“No. I’m just trying to decide which one of you I’m going to take out first.”

 _Another lie_ , the Knight thought calmly, but Jason was fuming. After all that had happened, all the pain, the fear and the nightmares, Bruce still had the nerve to treat him like nothing. He would make him pay. “Just so we’re both on the same page here” the Knight offered in conciliation, “I fully… fully intend to kill you. But first, we’re going to make you suffer.” Which meant he would need Scarecrow’s toxin. He patched himself through to the mixing chamber and could practically hear Scarecrow roll his eyes. The Knight couldn’t have cared less. “We have the target. Just say the word and I’ll end this now. Gotham will be ours.”

“We have not broken him yet” Scarecrow’s voice slithered into his ears. “Leave him be for now. The night is young. You will have another chance and you have more important business to take care of.”

“You don’t understand. There are no second chances with this guy.” Jason knew that better than anyone else. He had had one chance at being Robin. All it had taken was one disobeyed order, one rogue move to be reduced to less than nothing. He was not going to give Bruce that chance again.

“Stand down, Arkham Knight!” Crane was growling. “Or you will find your army drowned in my toxin before the hour is done.”

 _A threat?_ Jason was just about ready to explode, but the Knight pushed him back. Scarecrow was the client. Without him, there was no more money, no more support from the other distractions and – most importantly – no more fear gas. “You’ll regret this-“

The bullet flew just past his ear. To his sides, his men fell to the ground moaning in agony as the non-lethal rounds struck their skulls. It was not a deliberate thought but years of instinct and gruesome training that made his hand reach for the grapnel gun and aim for the roof. His legs moved on their own too and soon he was back on the other side of the facility. On his helmet, the status reports pinged once more. All drone and troop deployments successful. And according to one of his contacts, at least someone in the US army was considering to strike back. He would not have it. “Aerial Unit C, I want the payload primed and ready to drop. Their army won’t be getting anywhere near this city.”

He was in the middle of announcing the remaining evacuation time when Grant reported in. “Rattler forces engaged in the loading bay. Two Diamondbacks in support.”

“I’m watching.” He definitely was. Perched atop one of ACE Chemicals’ dormant chimneys the Knight had the best seats in the house. He zoomed in and watched carefully as the Batmobile transformed seamlessly from car to tank, sending high-caliber rounds through the drones and tearing them to shreds. Lucius and Jason had always advocated for a more offensive, more pragmatic Batmobile. He wondered how the old fox had eventually managed to persuade Bruce.

“Sir, the tanks can barely touch alpha target’s vehicle. Offensive capability way beyond expectation.” _No kidding._ Good thing Batman wasn’t the only one who had brought spares. “He’s been busy.” _And so have I._ He made his way back to the command post and slipped behind the controls once more. The chopper’s remote control came online instantly. He double- and triple-checked the weapon systems. If Scarecrow locked him out again, he would murder the son of a bitch with his own syringes. On his visor, the last watchtower on Founders finally reported in. _Good._ “Ground forces: Founders Island is under our control. Watchtowers and checkpoints are fully operational. I want attack units on Miagani now. Get me a drone patrolling every damn back alley!” The waiting was the worst part. Had it not been for the life sign monitors of his men going to ‘unconscious’ one after the other, he might not even have known how long he would have to wait. As it were, he knew Batman had found the second bait. His eyes fixated on the camera feed monitoring the elevator exit. The Rattlers and Diamondbacks had been deployed. The chopper was hovering steadily. He watched the Batmobile’s winch connect and pull.

“Come on then, hero! Let’s see if you can keep up with me!” His trigger finger came down hard on the controls, sending missile after missile into a car he had once spent hours optimizing. _A shame, really._ He would have loved to keep it for himself, but that was no longer an option. As the car’s upgraded bullets tore into his chopper, all he could do was smile. “Nice shooting. I wish I could be in there, but then, you know, you’d just hold back.” As if to prove him wrong, the Batmobile suddenly released four homing missiles that tore right through the chopper’s fuel tank. The monitors in front of him flashed bright red with error messages for all of two seconds before the chopper crashed and burned, a broken mess of twisted metal. His gauntlet beeped, reminding him that there was no time to get worked up over the loss. There were other places he still needed to be. First and foremost, the Clock Tower. It wasn’t losing this match that drove his blood pressure through the roof. It was having to walk away from it. “You haven’t won. Tonight you pay. For everything!”

***

The extraction squad was waiting for him just outside the Clock Tower. Scarecrow’s voice came rustling through his comms unit. “Is the strike team ready?”

“I’m with them now.” The transport chopper was hovering just above the sound-proof Clock Tower’s peak. Cameras on the road, cameras underneath the roof, but never once had Batman anticipated anyone trying to get in through the roof itself. And why would he? The chute was masterfully hidden, its location notably absent from any and all blue prints. Barbara would never see him coming. As he gestured to his men to drop onto the roof, Crane’s voice lapsed back into that grating, patronizing tone of his. “The asset is a crucial element of my plan. Do not disappoint me.”

“I never disappoint.” He thought back to the Asylum, to the many times that Joker had tried to get him to divulge information about Batman’s sidekicks. He had given the Clown absolutely nothing. Part of him found it deeply twisted that he was now about to hand Scarecrow Oracle on a silver platter. Part of him hated himself for doing this to her. “Remember”, he turned to his men quickly, “if any of you harm her, I will skin you alive. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

He was just about to hack the Clock Tower’s security systems when his gauntlet pinged him again. T minus zero. He gave his final evacuation orders through the remote link to ACE’s speaker system and congratulated his men on successfully locking down Gotham within less than an hour, then turned back to the task at hand. As predicted, Barbara and Lucius had upgraded the encryption protocols since he had last broken into the network. _So this is going to take sixty seconds instead of thirty. Who cares?_ His fingers raced across the virtual keypad on his gauntlet’s touch display. The Clock Tower defenses came apart piece by piece. By the time Barbara would notice, it would be too late.

“Have you found him?”

“Get out of there, now!”

Barbara’s voice was calm and factual, with a hint of cheekiness, as always. Bruce’s was not. Jason had never heard him so alarmed. He wondered if Bruce had at least managed to muster this much concern when Jason had first been taken from him, but he sincerely doubted it.

“Relax, no one knows I’m here.”

He was NOT no one. The last firewall crumbled under his fingers. Within a second both the communications system and the access hatch safety lock were dead. He dropped the flash bang grenade down the hole and slid into the chute.

Barbara was on him in a second. He had to admire her fighting spirit. Even half-blind from the smoke and paralyzed from the waist down her first instinct was to reach for her escrima sticks and take him down. Jason remembered his first sparring session with Batgirl and he remembered the feeling of fifty-thousand volts to the head. He was not going to let her beat him this time. A choked cry escaped her throat as he dodged her strikes, only to snatch her wrists and bring the sticks down hard onto the wheelchair’s arm rests. His helmet slammed hard into her forehead, leaving her slightly dazed. A few moments of dizziness were all he would need. Behind her, medic Price had already prepared the needle. As the sedative entered her blood stream, Barbara’s eyes stared straight at his blue mask. “Batman… He will… come for me… Arkham Knight.”

“No, Barbara.” He watched her eyelids flutter in confusion at the sound of her name, then shut slowly as the drug overwhelmed her mind and body. He knew that sound in her voice. It reminded him of a stupid boy who had once clung to the same foolish hope. “Trust me. He won’t.” As Joker had once put it, sometimes, you gotta be cruel to be kind.

***

By the time Batman was tearing the Clock Tower drones to pieces, the Arkham Knight’s vehicle had long-since reached Miagani Island. Grant’s panicked voice stood in stark contrast to the smooth, quiet raising of Mercy Bridge. “Multiple drones offline. What the hell was that?”

“The enemy has acquired simultaneous strike capabilities. Think faster.” He really should not have been surprised and yet with every single drone that went offline, the rage inside him burned hotter and brighter.

Scarecrow had blamed it all on him of course – the significantly reduced explosion that merely left the factory in ruins when it should have wrecked the entire east coast, the failure to apprehend Gordon. It had gotten to the point where he had Woods stop over just behind Mercy Bridge so he could get out of the car while he shouted at their client. His men did not need to know about the power struggle, the constant disagreements and clashes going on behind the scenes. He needed them focused and unconcerned.

It was the warning message popping up on the HUD of his blue helmet that finally took his mind off Scarecrow. Some wannabe hero was messing with HIS explosives. A second later, Sergeant Grant contacted him. _A second too slow_ , the Knight thought sourly. “We need those bombs in place, Sergeant. They are our deterrent.” If there was one good thing coming out of Batman trashing yet another batch of his drones, it was the proof that even kidnapping Barbara, Batman’s tech support, living encyclopedia and all around most capable, trusted and adored child replacement was not enough to distract him from the mission. If one bomb in the road was all it took to make him ditch the search for her, Jason shuddered to think how quickly Bruce must have given up on him. _Probably didn’t even start looking_ , the Arkham Knight suggested. “These machines are relentless” Jason growled into the comms unit. “Unlike you, they don’t give up. They don’t hesitate, they don’t hold back and they are NOT afraid of you, Batman.”

The last drone went offline with a quiet beep. In the darkness of Miagani’s alleys, the Knight smiled to himself before switching his communicator to broadcast publicly on all available channels. “You think that’s it, Dark Knight?” _Let the whole damn world know that HE is the reason this city is going to hell tonight._ “I’ve got this whole city wired to blow. Try and disarm the explosives and you’ll face even more of my drones.” _Not to mention the Cobras…_ “You see, I’ve waited YEARS. NO ONE is taking this from me. They’ll get a charred crater if they try.”

By the time he got back into the car, Barbara was stirring slowly in front of him. When he had first instructed Price to cut the dosage Crane had recommended in half, the medic had protested. The Knight had hardly cared either way, but Jason had insisted. Jason would rather have Barbara awake and kicking than sent into a drug-induced coma and he did not trust Crane. “Get moving, Woods.” While the soldiers followed his orders, the Knight warned his troops to watch the skies. No doubt Batman’s next move would be to glide onto Miagani to take out the men who had wired into the traffic network. It would make no difference. Soon, he and Barbara would be underground. The Arkham Knight’s domain. Then it would no longer matter if Mercy Bridge was raised or not.

They were halfway to base when all hell broke loose. In hindsight, he really should have checked her pockets for hidden gadgets. The Knight had been busy taunting Batman about the homing missiles he had put on the Mamba drones when Barbara had recovered the little can from her right pocket. Woods screamed and flailed as the pepper spray burned his eyes. The Knight reached forward to restrain her in her seat only for his own seatbelt to lock and jam, keeping him glued to the back seat. Two seconds later the car crashed into a concreted-bordered row of potted plants, sending Woods flying through the windshield. The rational part of him knew that being trapped was usually better than a broken neck. Still, this had been entirely avoidable and he hated himself for letting Jason get the better of him.

“Arkham Knight, come in. Defenses breached. He’s moving on to Miagani Island.” Grant’s voice was very, very low on the list of things he wanted to hear right now. With a deep growl the Knight extended the blades hidden in his gauntlets and cut the belt in half.

“Not now, Sergeant!” He got out and slammed the door shut. Behind the car, Barbara was slowly crawling away from the crash site. _Just as tough as I remember_. “Establish road blocks. Lock the island down.” His first instinct was to reach for the gun. He could immediately feel Jason’s panic deep in his chest. _Oh, don’t worry. Scarecrow’s gonna gas us if I shoot her._ The warning shot ricocheted off the cobbled stone next to Barbara’s head. He holstered the weapon again and strode over to her. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, Barb.”

“You don’t get to call me that, you bastard!” Her protests as he flung her over his shoulder and started walking barely reached his ear. There was no time for talking. If Batman had made it onto Miagani, he would soon be here. He had to be gone by then. As the Knight made his way through the alleys, more drone markers went offline on the map on his helmet. Perhaps he had slightly underestimated Batman’s ability to actually care for his remaining sidekicks. _At least now he cares who I am._

Entrance 6 lay in front of him undisturbed and perfectly inconspicuous. To anyone else it would have looked like just another closed down shop. The words ‘Looters, stay away or die!’ glared at him in bright red letters. It was no bluff. There were automated turrets mounted above the door on the other side. He put his hand onto the finger print scanner hidden in the ‘or’ and slipped through the opening door. On the inside, Anderson and Sasahara greeted him with a perfect salute. “Welcome back, sir. Where’s Woods?”

“Dead.” He would answer the inevitable questions later. Inside the tunnels, his men were busy fixing up APCs and ATVs. He was almost at the tunnel’s command center when the rest of Beta squad found him. The Knight had deliberately sent each car onto different routes through Miagani to create diversions. It was good to see that the rest of his men had made it back safe and sound.

“Welcome back, sir.” Price greeted him. “Where’s Woods?”

 _Déjà-fucking-vu._ “Woods is dead.” He sat Barbara on one of the supply crates by the side and immediately caught her wrists as she tried to reach for the nearest weapon she could see – a crowbar of all things. “Oh no, no, no, no, you’re not causing any more trouble for me and my men.” The look on her face as he turned back to the medic was more bloody murder than fear. “Give her another dose. Make it enough to knock her out for a while. We need to get her back to HQ.” Price complied with a frown, obviously biting back the ‘I told you so’ that was on his tongue. Barbara’s eyes were still scanning the room, clearly trying to glean as much useful information from her surroundings as possible, even despite her disadvantaged situation. _Fighting to the bitter end. It’s not going to help you, Barb,_ Jason thought sadly.

“We should just shoot her,” Carlos muttered almost inaudibly to his right. “Woods is dead because of her.”

“Woods is dead because he didn’t have enough brains to fasten his seatbelt”, Jason corrected. “Maybe I should have added common sense to the training program,” the Knight finished. He was sick and tired of all the blame-pushing. He was sick and tired of things going horribly wrong. “Jacobi and Price, take her back to HQ. Make sure she’s thoroughly restrained. Carlos and Hill, get our decoy ready to roll.” He had only met the girl once. She was the same height and age as Barbara and her hair was red, but that was where the similarities ended. Still, under the influence of the toxin, she would make a perfect, fake Barbara. He did not know where Scarecrow had found her or how long she had been working for him. There weren’t many crime bosses in Gotham that let girls into the gang. What Jason had known as soon as he had seen her was that she was so far down the food chain she would probably have done anything for any of Gotham’s crazies in return for a chance to get out of this hellhole. He had been there once.

By now, Batman was definitely tracking his broadcasting location, which meant that the real Barbara should be nowhere near him. Hiding both her and the decoy wouldn’t be too much trouble. Penguin had supplied enough safehouses to play cat and mouse in, which reminded him that he still had to go and pay the bastard for the guns he had delivered. He was about to march off into the control room when Jason’s concerns wormed their way back into his mind and made him turn to Price once more. “Oh, and Scarecrow should be at HQ, too. Make sure he doesn’t lay a finger on her.”

As his men put her in one of the ATVs and left for Founders Island, the Knight slumped down on one of the chairs in the control room. His shoulders, back and ankle were killing him again. From the reports coming through his helmet he could see that Batman was steadily regaining hold of Miagani’s streets while the tanks barely managed to scratch the car. Deathstroke had chimed in on the ACE debacle, pointing out the many ways in which he could have improved the situation if he had been in charge. Phase one was barely over and he already had the nagging suspicion that it would only get worse before it got any better. Under the masks, the J throbbed like an infected cut. Joker’s laughter was echoing around his skull.

Through the comms unit, Scarecrow informed him that his partner in crime, Simon Stagg, had cut all communication and seemed ready to flee the city. The Knight sighed and contacted the lieutenant that had been assigned the base closest to the airships. “Lieutenant Finch, this is Arkham Knight. Looks like Stagg is trying to chicken out. Take units thirty-four to thirty-nine. I want his damned airship harpooned and secured. I will be with you shortly.” He was about to get up and prepare to leave when Jacobi and Price reported in to confirm the successful transfer to HQ. At least something was going right. By now, Joker’s laughter had become loud enough to drown out every other thought in his head. _Just one more night,_ the Knight reminded himself. _Just a few more hours and then you can put all this pain, all this hatred into a bullet and end it all._

“We’ve got contact. Heavy contact outside the tunnel.” Grant again. Part of him just wanted to put that man into the ground. Sadly, he was the best drone controller in the entire militia. “Suggest immediate extraction, sir.” What he had in multi-tasking skills, he was sadly lacking in common sense and basic strategy. Running was not going to work. The entire point of this occupation was not running, but locking down the city and cornering Batman.

“No! I’m not going anywhere!” This was the control room. Sooner or later, once Batman had weaseled his way into this tunnel, he would have to come here. The Knight would be waiting for him. First Bruce, then Penguin, then Stagg. He grappled up into the maze of support beams that overlooked the room and disappeared into the shadows.

The drones in front of the entrance did not last long. The ceiling sensors picked up the Dark Knight’s trail as soon as he grappled up to avoid detection. What baffled the Arkham Knight was that none of his men even bothered to look up. That had been lesson number one. He had been drilling that into their numb skulls since day one in training camp. The Knight switched to his cowl vision and watched, perched and ready to lunge, as Batman entered the control room through the floor crates. _Almost there…_

Apparently, Bruce had not learned the lesson either. The bullet missed as intended, drawing his attention to where it should be. The Knight pounced, arm drawn back for extra momentum, and delivered a hard punch straight to his head. Watching him go down in pain was the highlight of this night so far. “No, no, no, you’re not going anywhere, old man.” He stepped over him, mustering the new suit as his cowl ran an analysis on the compounds. “Tri-weave titanium-coated armor plating – nice.” It was the very latest of the cutting edge technology coming out of Wayne Enterprises. The patent had been filed, but the material was not for sale yet. He remembered having to content with dual-weave for his own suit. Still, materials and craftsmanship were useless if the design had flaws. He pointed the gun at the point just below the rib cage where the plating had been foregone in favor of more maneuverable material. “Unless you know – exactly – where – to shoot.”

His old mentor groaned in pain as the bullet punched through the fabric and into his flesh. _How does it feel, Bruce?_ The Arkham Knight wondered if Batman was going through the same haze of fiery red pain that he had once felt as the bullet had missed his heart by less than an inch. Underneath his own bullet proof chest plate, the wound burst into fresh agony. _Just put one in his face already_ , Jason begged inside him, but the Knight refused. Judging from the still rather stoic look on Bruce’s face, he had not paid nearly enough for everything the Knight had gone through thanks to him. “You’re good, Dark Knight. Even better than I remembered. It’s going to make it even more satisfying when I kill you.” He would rectify this lack of pain. Besides, Scarecrow still had plans for him. He moved away slowly. By the time he would grant Bruce the mercy of death, he would understand. The fear of an inevitable, gruesome demise. The feeling of being utterly broken and helpless. The pain of losing everything he was and everyone he loved. “Oh, and don’t worry about Barbara. I’ll take better care of her than you ever did.” As he exited the room, the Knight turned to his men. Most of them were already standing close by, alerted by the shot, cracking their knuckles and itching for a chance to get a punch in. This is what they had been trained for. Time to make it count. “Batman’s in the control room. Show him what happens when he messes with MY city.”

***

By the time Batman had finished beating the crap out of his men and chasing down Barbiero in his APC, the Arkham Knight’s dealings with Penguin were thankfully over. Cobblepot had been trying to weasel information out of him. About Batman. About the hostage. It had taken every single ounce of willpower for him not to smash in the man’s ugly face. It was bad enough that he had to jump at Scarecrow’s beck and call. He would not do it for Penguin.

He had also tracked the Batwing’s energy signature as it had flown in to Grand Avenue, most likely providing more upgrades to the Batmobile, which Bruce promptly used to tear another host of drones to shreds. Jason had always loved the Batwing, even more so than the Batmobile, and the one time Batman had allowed him to sit inside, he had felt like a little kid on Christmas Day. Now, he could only hope that Batman would try to send the Batwing flying over Founders. He would enjoy watching the missile launcher tear it apart piece by piece.

“Sir, Stagg’s airship’s been hooked and tethered. We’re heading in.”

“Good.” It was good news. One of the few he had had all night. Still, he was already on route to the ship. So far, every time he had left his troops to do the job on their own, it had ended badly. He had taught them every move Batman had and they still hadn’t seen him coming. He would not let Stagg get away. “Get in there, find Stagg and interrogate him. And lieutenant: I’m assigning you an extra unit. For guard duty.”

“Who’re we guarding?”

“Scarecrow. The boss wants to come aboard.” His thoughts returned to the message Crane had sent him, a memo really, stating as a matter of fact that he would be coming aboard to make sure that the Cloudburst was intact and operational. Phase Two. He hated having Scarecrow meddle around in the field. He was a very effective planner, an orchestrator, with the right skills for scheming from the safety of a heavily guarded base. If Batman caught him in the field, however, the fight would be over before it had really begun. He was painting giant red crosshairs all over himself and he did not even know it.

He left the decoy in the hands of unit twenty-six in Chinatown and moved on to Founders. Lieutenant Finch was waiting for him in front of the research lab of airship alpha, surrounded by a field of corpses. The man was nothing if not brutally efficient. The Knight could appreciate it. “Scarecrow is on Arc Two, checking on the Cloudburst. I assigned unit forty to guard him. Stagg’s just behind this door, sir. He’s locked the ship down. We’re just waiting for the C4 to blow this door open.”

“Don’t bother.” He was done waiting while drone after drone went offline and one bomb after another was defused. With every single asset that disappeared off the map, the itching in his trigger finger intensified. He was going to enjoy rolling over that car. With Bruce inside. And then he would pull the damn trigger and end it. He brought up the network cracking program on his gauntlet and went straight into the security system. If Oracle had still been in the Clock Tower, she would be able to do the same for Bruce. The firewalls came apart one by one. “Good evening, Mr. Stagg,” the gentle voice greeted him through the speaker system.

Stagg was sitting by the main control hub, feet put up on the table, whistling to the music coming through his earpiece. _Really bad manners_ , Joker’s voice cooed in his brain. _Let’s teach him a lesson_. He smiled as cheerful whistling turned into pained sobs and frightened begging. _No spine, this one._ He pushed him down the stairs, imagining Bruce in Stagg’s place. “Get moving, you spineless coward.” Sadly, there was no time for him to stick around. Batman would be here soon. Chances were he’d have to airlift Scarecrow and the Cloudburst out of here. It was time to put some explosives on this blimp and get Robinson and one of big transport choppers. He turned to his lieutenant once more. “Interrogate him and find out where he’s hidden the Cloudburst files.” They hadn’t been on the ship wide network he had hacked into. Probably hidden on a separate partition, probably even a single machine that was not connected to the rest of the network. At least Stagg was properly paranoid. As he made his way over to Arc Two, the Knight added Stagg to the list of scumbags he’d have to shoot in the head once he was done with Batman.

Such a long list. So much work to be done.


	12. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Phase Two turning out little better than Phase One, Jason finally decides to go toe to toe with the Dark Knight in his Cloudburst tank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: PTSD, psychosis; references to past torture and non-consensual drug use and sexual abuse; graphic violence, hallucinations of major character death  
> Side notes: I am so sorry for what I have to do to this character. I actually cried while writing the end of this one. Detailing what I imagined Jason’s exposure to Cloudburst-enhanced fear gas must have been like is one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever written.

He had been busy loading the rocket launcher when Scarecrow’s voice slithered into his ear. _Goddamn hypocrite._ For a man who spent half his time criticizing the Knight for taunting Batman, Crane seemed to like the sound of his own voice way too much. “Gotham is mine, to do with as I please. And the same can be said for your friend.” _He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine. To do with as I wish._ Joker’s voice rose from the depths of his mind slowly, creeping up on him just like the feeling of two boney hands sliding over his shoulders, a mockingly gentle gesture. “Can you see her? Cowering in the darkness? Cursing the hero who failed her?” That too brought back memories. He could feel his knuckles whiten as he clutched the rocket in his fist.

It wasn’t until one of his men started bragging about how he would kill the bat that the chill of Arkham finally faded from his back. “Don’t get cocky”, Jason growled into the comms unit. “You are NOTHING compared to him.”

The Knight hated it when Jason was right. One by one, the life signs went from OK green to KO yellow on his visor, while the radio only gave him static. “Scarecrow, my men have stopped reporting in. And that only means one thing. You have seconds at best. Are we ready?”

“Not yet. The Cloudburst must be fully charged.”

Not the answer he had been waiting for. He signaled Robinson to move the aircraft lower so he could attach the hooks that would tear the Cloudburst off Stagg’s blimp. He was not going to let Crane blame him for another thing gone wrong. “Then we'll have to do it off-site. Prepare for extraction.”

He finished attaching the last hook just as Scarecrow’s voice swelled again in his ears. “You're not dying, it just feels like you are. My toxin is filling your lungs, drowning you in your greatest fears. What can you see? A city engulfed in fear? Betrayed by those you trust the most? Your darkest secrets revealed? As I tear your mind apart, Gotham will watch. I will cut that mask from your face and the whole world will see the fear in your eyes. Then they too will understand. There is no savior. No more hope... No more Batman.”

 _Son of a bitch._ Had Crane actually done it? Had he managed to gas Batman? Jason hoped he had. Over the militia channel, panicked voices called out in fear. Whatever Bruce was doing to them, it sounded worse than the usual broken bones _. I should be down there, goddamn it!_ He wanted to see. He wanted to be there. It wasn’t fair that Crane would be the only one to see Batman lose it. It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t right. He was just about ready to grapple down onto the glass ceiling and join the fray when Scarecrow pushed the detonator. “Who said anything about running?”

The explosive charges went off without a hitch. Robinson did not wait for his signal and pulled the chopper upwards, ripping the Cloudburst and half the front of the airship straight off the hull. The helicopter sagged slowly with the additional weight, giving him a clear look at the carnage in the Cloudburst chamber. Of course, Batman was still standing. Whatever Scarecrow had done to him, it had not been enough. He reached for the rocket launcher and fired all rounds. If it didn’t kill him, at least it would slow him down.

“How does it feel to see your city on the brink of ruin, your friends in the clutches of death?” Scarecrow’s face stared at him from every TV screen in the city. Crane had recorded this message earlier, he knew. The only new footage was the Barbara decoy, now with her red hair bound back, sitting in a wheel chair in the Chinatown safehouse. “You stretched yourself too far this time, Batman, and now your failure is all but complete. As that final, dying breath escapes her body, she will know you are the one who failed her.” Jason patched into the camera feed that had been set up in the safehouse and glued his eyes to the screen. He was mildly aware that they had landed near safehouse fourteen in sector onne and that Scarecrow was instructing his men in charging up the Cloudburst and he could not have cared less. He needed to see this.

As the fake gas pumped into the cell and Scarecrow’s suggestive voice filled in the gaps in Batman’s perception, the decoy started playing her part of the terrified damsel in distress. She was moderately good at it, although Jason had seen enough wounded gazelle gambits during his time on the streets to see through it instantly. According to Scarecrow, they had practiced this little charade with some of his own henchmen and a fake gun before. The Knight was not surprised when the gun turned out to be real and loaded this time around. The cowl could pick up vital stats after all. Jason felt his stomach tighten as he watched Batman fall to his knees in front of a dead girl he believed to be Barbara Gordon. Now, come to think of it, he didn’t even know the decoy’s name. Another nameless, faceless victim of Batman’s crusade, caught in the crosshairs. He had expected to feel satisfaction at seeing Bruce’s despair or at least joy at getting at least some emotional payback, but all he could do was wonder if Bruce would have been just as distraught if it had been Robin 2.0. _Not bloody likely_ , the Knight sneered. _He didn’t even bother to look for us._ Frightening as it was, for the first and last time, he found himself agreeing with Scarecrow. “You will bring death to all who follow you.”

***

The tracker monitoring his own vitals beeped furiously as he yelled at Grant for losing another Cobra unit. Jason had designed those tanks specifically to take down the Batmobile. About the only thing that had more armor and punch was the Arkham Knight’s own personal tank and yet Bruce still tore them to shreds. Business as usual. Just another act. The display of grief in the safehouse. The pretense that he cared. It was all just an act. “Hey, question: Did it hurt? Watching her die? Powerless to do anything?” The Knight didn’t even know what made Jason ask. He knew the answer already. Bruce didn’t care. He never had. Another Cobra disappeared off the grid. “Barbara Gordon worked for you! She… she thought for you! And look what it got her!” He had been a fool to belief that Bruce cared about anyone. Not Jason. Not Barbara.

“Do not fret, Arkham Knight,” Scarecrow’s voice felt like nails on a chalkboard in his head. “Soon the Cloudburst will be ready. Then we shall both have our revenge.”

 _Easy for you to say_ , Jason thought, but the Knight bit back the remark. Of course everything was going well from Scarecrow’s point of view. The Cloudburst was secure in safehouse fourteen, protected from the Batwing’s scanners by the missile launcher, getting charged closer to completion with every minute. Barbara was safely restrained at HQ. Units forty-five and forty-six had managed to track down Gordon and were moving in to apprehend him. HE did not have to worry about Batman tearing millions of dollars worth of infantry and armory to shreds. HE did not have to worry about Cobra after Cobra, watchtower after watchtower, bomb after bomb going offline. HE did not have to yell at the units that were supposed to guard strategically vital radars, only to have them disappear off the grid one by one. From Scarecrow’s perspective, everything must have been fine and dandy.

“Gamma four, status. Gamma four do you copy?”

“Sir, he's going for the defense shield.”

“He's bringing in the car to destroy the missile launcher. Deploy strike team Delta to target location now.” Strike team Delta would not be enough and neither would the Cobra squadron. He knew it even before the tank markers flashed in bursts of white static before disappearing off his visor’s map. Scarecrow had had his one-on-one time with Batman. Now it was Jason’s turn. He ordered unit sixty-five to join him and made his way to the missile launcher. Crane could choke on his toxin. He was done waiting. He was done losing. It was time to make good on his promises and put an end to Batman once and for all.

“Rooftop's clear. Target's in the control room. Moving in to secure.”

“Hold off, lieutenant. He's mine.” He could practically feel the surprise and dread emanating from Delta’s leader as he marched up the steps and towards the door. Commanders did not usually move into the field until things were going to hell and his men had all heard that tone in his voice at least once before. They had learned the hard way to move out of his way and keep their heads down. “Raise the defense shield. Keep all access points covered.” _Focus, damn you_ , the Knight growled as he pushed Jason back. Now was not the time for bravado. It hadn’t worked with Joker, it hadn’t worked with Batman. “Sir, the launcher's secure. As long as we control the skies he'll never find it.” In between all the laughter, Joker’s voice rose almost tenderly. _Excellent manners, Todders. You do learn after all._

“Good. Are we still on schedule?” Scarecrow doubting him again, intensifying the rage that so often gave room to Jason. He didn’t need Jason now.

The Knight swallowed hard. “We're entering the final phase.”

“Your patience will be rewarded soon.” He certainly hoped so. For the last hours, everything had been going to hell. The night was halfway done and Batman was still alive. ACE had been a disaster. The army he had spent two years building had been failing spectacularly.

He could feel his presence even before he saw him take down his men. _Going for the medics and the combat experts first – very smart._ He blocked both swings that came aiming for his head and wrenched Batman’s right arm out of the way. As the fingers of Batman’s left curled around the Knight’s throat, his own right arm instinctively reached up to do the same. There was no fear in the Dark Knight’s eyes, no guilt, no shame. It was starting to bring back Jason and his fury. _Not good enough. He needs to suffer._

“Who are you?”

“Not yet, Dark Knight.” The flash bang grenade erupted into a cloud of red smoke. He had rejoined unit sixty-eight who were about to set up their road block when the missile launcher was torn to shreds by the Batmobile’s guns. “You think you can outwit ME?! You think I'm just like all the others?!” His gloved fists aimed for the nearest piece of equipment he could find – a gun supply crate – and left enough of a dent to jam the opening mechanism, before venting his frustration on the red panels that had been set up on the east side of the watch point until his hands screamed in pain.

“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll get him next time.” He turned to the soldier slowly. Everyone else had already backed up and tried to blend into the scenery. This guy was either very brave or very stupid. He reeled the man in with his claw and wrenched his right arm back until the bone cracked. One good throw and a boot to the man’s neck later, his painful cries had turned to frightened begging.

“THERE IS NO NEXT TIME, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” Jason turned to the remaining men. “Or does anyone of you just happen to have a tungsten-carbide missile launcher hidden up their worthless asses, huh?” He was just about to pick somebody else to punch when one of the Bleake units reported the Batwing changing routes. The Knight took a deep breath. Jason could cry and rage all he wanted. The missile launcher was gone and the Batwing would be here soon. Now was not the time for rage-induced outbursts. He patched himself through to Robinson and his unit. “What’s the status of the Cloudburst and how much longer will it take to charge it?”

“Not done charging yet, sir. About eighty-five percent, according to Scarecrow.” He could practically hear Robinson steeling himself for an onslaught of rage in reply to his next sentence. “No estimated time of full charge; Scarecrow would know, but he just left.”

“What?! Where to?” Robinson’s answer amounted to little less than ‘no fucking clue’. Where had Crane gone off to now and why? The Cloudburst was his device. Everything about phase three hinged on that damn machine. Why would he leave now? “Move the Cloudburst into safehouse twenty-two. If it is not well beneath ten feet of steel and concrete a minute from now, Batman will find it.”

“Yes, sir.”

This could not be happening. He had enough trouble to deal with already. Missile launcher, gone. Batman, gone. And now Scarecrow, gone. He tried the comms unit, but came up short. The tracker he had implanted in the communicator given to Scarecrow was dead. This night was just getting worse and worse.

He followed the transport all the way back to the safehouse, watching the tank that held the Cloudburst like a mother hawk. As soon as it was charged it would be mounted onto the tank the Knight had designed specifically for this night, tons upon tons of steel, tungsten, and ceramic alloys designed to protect against any kind of anti-tank weaponry, combined with a gun he had spent the better part of a year designing that could practically melt the Batmobile’s hull. He had only had the time and the finances to build two. It was one of the first things Bruce had taught him: always bring a spare.

***

“No, no, no, don't tell me he's gone! He's still out there. I know he is!” It had been almost an hour since the last sign of the Dark Knight. Not a single vital sign going yellow, not a single tank disappearing. Something was wrong. “Batman doesn't retreat. I'm sending in reinforcements. Find him!” Jason was pacing up and down the safehouse with furious strides. It was not even midnight yet, but it felt like it had been a lifetime since Operation Savior had begun. He was tired of the waiting. He was tired of the nagging, foreboding feeling that – at the end of the day – it would still not be enough, somehow. That he would fail again, just as he had failed all those years ago. The Knight pushed down the fear and straightened up. Next time he saw Bruce, he’d kill him.

“Sir, this is Jacobi reporting in from HQ.” Normally, he would already have known that from the data in his visor, except that the number of the comms unit contacting him showed up as currently not in use and the channel used was not the normal broadcasting channel assigned to his ground forces. _An unassigned, spare unit maybe? But why?_ Judging from Jacobi’s whispering, whatever the man wanted to tell him was confidential enough to try and keep it from everyone else. “You wanted us to keep an eye on the hostage.” _Barbara…_ “Scarecrow just walked in here, ordered everyone but Price to leave the room. Said he’d gas any man who’d report back to you.” _That son of a bitch…_

“Thank you, Jacobi. Now ditch this communicator and get the hell out of there. This conversation did not happen.”

The amusement was palpable in the soldier’s voice. “What didn’t happen, sir?”

He grappled up the nearest crane and back onto the skyscrapers. So that was why Scarecrow had gone dark. He’d make him regret it. The elevator crawled deeper into the building at the pace of a turtle on crutches. It made his trigger finger itch. On his vitals monitor, the blood pressure indicator flashed bright amber. “I’m going to murder the bastard…”

The men at the base looked at him, stunned, as he moved from the elevator, exchanging frightened glances. They knew now that someone had blown the whistle and if Scarecrow found that someone, he’d be worse than dead. At the very least, none of them moved to stop him as he kicked in the door to briefing room nine.

Scarecrow was standing behind her wheelchair, his hands resting almost gently on her shoulders, one syringe-tipped finger tapping lightly against the bare skin of her neck. Barbara didn’t show it, but his cowl told him all he needed to know. Her heart was racing, her blood pressure almost as high as his. Behind both of them, Price stood, looking positively terrified. “Get the hell away from her!”

Scarecrow smiled. “Do not worry, Arkham Knight. Miss Gordon and I were merely having a polite conversation.” There was nothing ‘mere’ or ‘polite’ about being confined to a wheelchair and in the hands of a psycho. Jason knew it all too well.

“Get. Away. From her. Or I swear to God I’ll put some new holes into that tattered get-up of yours.” He drew one of his guns, trigger finger trembling in place _. Just give me one good reason_ , Jason thought sourly.

“Very well.” He watched, gun still at the ready, as Scarecrow slowly strode through the door, followed swiftly by a very terrified Price. He slammed the door shut and holstered his gun before turning back to Oracle.

“He’s gone. Did he hurt you?”

“Spare me the good cop/bad cop routine.” _Still, full of bravado_. The Knight smiled. He had known a cocky kid like that once. Two could play this game.

“No, no, no, no. See, you’re supposed to keep me talking. Play for time. Wait for Batman. That’s what he taught you, right?”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“See, me, I talked for hours,” Jason finally admitted. It was the truth, too. He remembered every single word, every second that had dripped by. “‘Cause I knew, right? Batman was on his way to save me. But the bastard just let me talk…” He remembered that as well. Jason had always hated silence. Silence made him feel like things were just waiting to go wrong. And usually, they did. “Eventually I just, ran out of things to say. So trust me. You can’t count on Bruce to save you.”

He caught the look of utter shock in her eyes, even if it only lasted for a fraction of a second. By the time the words came out of her mouth, her voice sounded perfectly I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about confused. “Bruce?”

“Mmm, yeah, Scarecrow doesn’t know. It’s our little secret.” Jason glanced back at the door to make sure it was still locked before leaning down to put his hands on her wheelchair’s arm rests and his face right in front of hers. “Now here’s another. Batman likes to play the hero, Barbara, and he’s pretty good at it. But it’s an act.” He had learned that lesson the hardest way possible. She should be grateful he was sparing her that pain. “Batman’s not about saving the innocent, oh no. He’s about punishing the guilty.” Barbara rolled her eyes at him. He didn’t blame her. When Joker had first tried to make him see the truth, Robin had not believed a word of it, either. _Robin…_ The bird had given it his all, trying to suppress the horrible suspicion, that nagging feeling inside Jason that Joker might have been right and it had all just been a scam, too good to be true. He had had it ever since Batman, Bruce, had taken him in, and he had never quite truly gotten rid of it. Robin had been a stubborn, eye-rolling fool, too. It had taken half a year of torture and cold, hard evidence of Batman’s indifference to make the little bird-brain see the light. He would save her the pain. And he would not waste six months of her life. “Now don’t get me wrong. He’ll look for you. Or he’ll try. But when it comes down to it, when he has to make a choice between you and the mission? He’ll choose the mission. Every time.”

“You’re wrong.”

 _What the hell are you doing?_ The Knight’s voice rang in his head against the sound of laughter, concerned instead of enraged for the first time ever, as his fingers moved to the release mechanism for his helmets. He could not feel the digits as they touched the plating. All he could feel was the deep, damp chill of a tiled cell, the sharp sting of a thousand scars, the fiery explosion of pain in his ankle and shoulders, and the scorching hot J on his cheek. “Look me in the eye and say that.”

“Jason!?” Her eyes were wide in shock, little globes of blue in a pale face slightly marred by bruises. He caught her gaze wandering to the burn mark, then back to his own eyes. _What do you see, Barbara, hm? A ghost? A shadow? Did you at least miss me a little?_

Her eyes darted back and forth between his face and the Arkham diamond on his chest. “Jason, this is wrong!”

“This is justice!” He wondered what lies Bruce had told her. “He left me!”

“He LOST you! And he mourned for you.” There were tears in her eyes now. Even without the cowl, he could tell that her heart rate was through the roof. If she had not been paralyzed from the waist down and tied to a wheelchair, she would probably have grabbed him by the shoulders and stared him down as she had so often done when he had told her secrets he would never reveal to anyone, only to try and undo his mistake with crude, verbal back steps. It wouldn’t last long. Soon the firm grip would give way to a gentle hand, reaching out in conciliation and comfort. She had that habit, that gift. She and Alfred. “Come home.”

 _There it is._ He had expected it and yet those simple two words kept bouncing around his skull, winding their way down through his consciousness into his very soul. _Come home._ What was home? An abstract concept. Someplace safe and warm. Someplace where you’re needed and loved. The manor had been home once. The manor and its past and present inhabitants. Bruce, Alfred, Dick and Barbara. Once. A lifetime ago. For another boy. For Robin. _Robin is dead._ “I can’t go back.” The words nearly died in his mouth. He had known it since the day he had escaped, since the moment he had stayed crouched out of sight instead of shouting for Batman and the replacement as they strode by less than a hundred meters from his position. _No. I’ve known it since the day Joker made me his._ The J burned like a thousand suns. “You don’t know what Joker did, Barbara.” _Beatings, crowbars, drills, saws, knives, sanding paper, pliers, electricity, acid, drugs, Venom, starvation, abandonment, sensory depravation, fake escapes, brandings, that damn persistent laugh track, the ever-increasing slew of pictures plastered on the wall…_ It all came back to him now, though he had probably missed some. His mind was more than happy to drag it all up from the pits that were usually reserved to his sleeping hours. The feeling of being utterly abandoned, hopeless and terrified. Forgotten, in the dirt. His rage had been all that had been keeping him alive. He could not give up on that. He was nothing without it. Nothing but a broken mess of pain and fear. “He hollowed me out and filled me back up with hate and…”

“Jason, we can fix it…”

“I CAN FIX IT!” The Knight had given him the answer, the solution, his salvation, all those years ago. The Knight had saved his life. “I know now what to do. I take all this pain, all this blackness, and I put it all in a bullet, and I put it right between Bruce’s eyes.”

“Joker’s dead, Jason.” And of course Barbara was pushing the blame. _Because Bruce is the Dark Knight in shining black armor who NEVER does anything wrong, oh no, no, no_. “You want revenge on the man who hurt you? You’ve got one shot. Come back to the manor. Let us help you. Don’t let Joker win.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the words almost made sense. _Except that Bruce already killed Joker and took that shot from us. Joker’s already won. She just doesn’t know it yet_ , the Knight sneered. He had come back to Gotham for one thing and one thing only. He was not going to let this ungrateful, deluded fool ruin it. “How’s Alfred?” The question was out of his mouth even before he knew why his brain had come up with it. Part of him really did want to know. If there were two people Jason was sure had never played any part in this sick little joke that Bruce had played on him, it was Alfred and Lucius. The only two people who had ever seemed to genuinely care about Jason, not Robin.

“He misses you. We all do.”

 _A very polite lie_ , the Knight growled. _It almost brings a tear to my eye._ He was about to retort when Scarecrow marched back into the room. “The Cloudburst is charged, Knight. It’s time.”

His fingers instinctively went back to the mechanism on his helmet once more. Somehow the chill of Arkham seemed less distant, less painful under the red and blue. Jason had had his five minutes of whining. It was time to get back to work and the last thing he needed were more distractions. “Someone put a gag on her.” Against his better judgment, Jason’s concerns worked their way back into his mind as he took one last look at the bruises and the pleading, heartbroken look on her face. “Anyone hurts her, they’re a dead man.”

***

He had been busy calibrating his tank’s systems to account for the recent addition of the Cloudburst when Grant’s voice had informed him of the drones lost near the Botanical Gardens. Once more the Rattlers and Diamondbacks disappeared off the map one by one, followed by a squadron of Cobras. It wouldn’t matter. Batman was bringing a plant. He was bringing two death machines combined into one. This could only end one way. “Don't think you've won, Batman. You will lose. Everything.”

His own Cobra squadron rolled out first, clearing the streets of Founders for him as he moved onto Perdition Bridge. His fingers hovered over the trigger. This was it. The moment Scarecrow had been waiting for. The last phase of the occupation plan. The first step in exposing Batman’s failure to the world. By morning, Batman would be dead, gone and forgotten. He took a deep breath and pushed the button. Safe inside the tank, he barely felt anything but a slight increase in temperature. The Cloudburst had heated up the rest of the tank ever so slightly, but everything was within normal parameters. Outside, chaos had erupted on the streets. He could glean that much from the voices of his soldiers as they observed Gotham going to hell. Scarecrow’s voice slithered through all open channels. “Welcome to Gotham... The City of Fear.”

***

Scarecrow’s rants continued, but the Knight tuned him out. He watched from the alleys of the Cauldron as the remaining airship units disappeared off the grid. The Serpent drones were highly unlikely to stop him, but the Knight ordered them deployed anyway. To his surprise, the next units to go offline were not on Bleake Island. They were in Port Adams. _What is it you think you’re doing Batman? Did the fear gas destroy your brains already?_ “Scarecrow, you read me? He took out the container yard drones. He's wasting his time. There's nothing there.”

“Nothing we know of.” Jason’s thoughts and Scarecrow’s voice overlapped in his head. _Nothing we know of, but Batman does not just go for joy rides while his city is going to hell._ Something was off.

He knew what it was the minute the plant burst out of the ground and couldn’t quite decide whether to feel annoyed or amused. _Another giant tree. Really?_ “Sergeant, there's a weed grown tall in Divinity Churchyard. Cut it down.” To Grant’s credit, the Divinity unit did more damage to the Batmobile than any drone assault before. Still, it ended exactly the same way. How many drones had that been now? Thirty? Forty? Plus a stationary Python. As the environmental monitors inside his tank started reporting a decrease in fear gas concentration, rage boiled inside him once more.

“He wiped them out, sir. We're gonna need more tanks.”

“No. Now he needs to face me.” He was done running. He was done watching from behind the scenes. This was going to end now. He used the same exploit he had taken advantage of before – _why did nobody ever bother to update their security protocols_ – and patched into the Dark Knight’s gauntlet comms unit. “Batman, just stop. Stop acting like a hero, stop thinking you can save... anything.” _You couldn’t save me_ , Jason thought sourly. _You will not save Gotham either_. “Ooh, you found another tree? Well, I've still got the Cloudburst. You want to finish this? Come to Bleake Island. Then it'll be over.” He could already picture Scarecrow’s exasperation at this deviation from the intended attack plan. _Crane can go to hell_. On that much, both the Knight and Jason could agree. It was past midnight now. He had spent three years waiting for this. He had spent the better part of five hours watching from the sidelines, passing up chance after chance for this deluded psychopath, who thought his plans were flawless when Batman had clearly found a way to work around them. He would put an end to all of this and he would do it now.

“You fixed the car and you're back for more, because Batman never quits, never gives up, never abandons his city.” The bridges connecting Bleake to the other islands rose slowly. _Good._ There would be no more running, no more hiding. “You think you're the only one who can come back stronger, huh, hit harder than before? You're wrong, savior. And I'm gonna show you how wrong you are.”

As expected, the Cobra tanks disappeared off the map one by one. Crane’s voice soon crawled into his ear. “Your escort is almost gone, Knight. Protect the Cloudburst, withdraw.”

“He can't defeat me.” The Knight barked back. “The Cloudburst is too powerful.” _And so am I._ He had trained and prepared for this for years. This tank had been built to destroy Batman. The Knight had been born to destroy him. He would not fail.

“What do you think you're doing?” Crane’s frustration was almost palpable. That alone made it worth the trouble in Jason’s eyes.

“Finishing the job.”

“This is not the plan we agreed upon.”

“It's a plan that works. Scarecrow can choke on his toxin, Batman. He wants you to suffer. I just want you dead.” He was done waiting. On the monitor linked to the tank’s scanner, the Batmobile’s heat signature flashed bright red. He fired the main gun almost instinctively and charged after the little dot disappearing behind the corner. He would wreck that car and if Bruce was still alive after that, he’d finally put that damn bullet through his head.

The first strike hit his tank from the back left. A dozen warning messages flashed across the screens as the coolant line shot down, but he couldn’t have cared less. He chased the Batmobile all throughout Chinatown until the signal was eventually lost. _Next time…_ “He's trying to overheat the Cloudburst.” _Captain Obvious at the helm, folks._ What did Scarecrow think he was? An idiot? _Actually, that’s probably exactly what he thinks_ , Jason sneered. Why the Knight had ever bothered to follow the crazy bastard’s orders after he got the money was a mystery to him. “Leave now.”

“He cannot win!”

“You will have your chance to kill him” Scarecrow offered, but Jason did not believe a word of it. They had had an agreement. Scarecrow had already broken it twice by going dark without warning and by trying to gas Barbara. His words were empty.

“I'm not waiting anymore.” _Certainly not for the likes of you_.

The second strike hit the front right. This time, the hunt ended up trashing half the Cauldron, while his left hand raced across the dashboard to reroute power from the tank’s overall cooling system to the Cloudburst and the main gun. The inside temperature rose almost instantly, leaving a thin line of sweat running down his back. It brought back the painfully familiar chill he’d been trying to shake for years. “The Cloudburst is not bait, Knight. It is mine.” Scarecrow sounded pissed.

Two could play that game. “And Batman is mine”, Jason retorted. He would find the son of a bitch and he would murder him. This game of hide and seek would not last forever. In front of his tank, the main gun reduced another car to molten metal as the Batmobile disappeared around yet another corner. Lucius had really outdone himself this time. He wondered how far Bruce would have gotten without him. Or Alfred or Barbara for that matter. It was another lie, another act. Batman was the face on the poster, but he was nothing without people he was not worthy of having. “You don’t deserve friends.” Jason growled through his comms unit. “You don’t deserve ANYBODY!”

The third strike hit the back right. Inside the tank, the temperature had now reached an uncomfortable thirty-nine degrees Celsius. The main gun’s cooling system had warning messages plastered all over it. “Before I kill you, you'll know the truth.” He would make sure of it. If nothing else would come of this night, at least he would finally get Bruce to answer for all he had done. For abandoning him, for replacing him, for lying to him. He was dying to hear his excuses. To his right, Panessa Studios stood, seemingly abandoned, towering over an empty parking lot. This place was perfect. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run if he wanted to get a clean shot. The game of cat and mouse was over. He waited for the inevitable strike to come.

The fourth coolant line exploded with a sharp bang. Forty-one degrees. He rerouted the remaining coolant to the Cloudburst at the expense of the main cannon and pulled the trigger on every gun and homing missile mounted to the tank. Judging from the ‘strike successful’ messages on his monitors, at the very least the Batmobile had taken some serious damage as well. _Good_. His fingers hovered over the triggers as he chased down the billion dollar war machine. A few more like those and it would be scrap. He rounded the corner of the bridge leading back to the train yard only to be met by a hail of homing missiles directly to the Cloudburst. The onboard computer informed him that somewhere between the tank’s many layers of armor a small fire had burst from some damaged electronics. He would take care of it later. As he followed the Batmobile’s trail, more sixty millimeter rounds tore another hole through the Cloudburst. By the time the homing missile were on route, the car had vanished behind the nearest corners. Jason wished he had more than the damn radar to work with. It was like having only a cowl and no eyes. He retreated back out into the open, only to be greeted by another barrage of missiles.

This time, the Cloudburst did not outlast the assault. He barely had time to read the warning message on the screen before the device short-circuited, frying the rest of the electronics and leaving him trapped in pitch black darkness. The resulting explosion sent him flying out of his seat and crashing right into the nearest part of the tanks hull. The air was hot and heavy. _Like a plastic bag over your head_ , Joker’s voice grinned in his mind. Somewhere on his left side, the fire had broken through the fuselage and was licking at his suit, his helmet. _I am NOT going to die in here!_ The Knight’s arm reached for the access hatch’s release mechanism and twisted sharply. He could barely feel his arm anymore as he lifted the hatch and dragged himself out of the fiery pit that was now the inside of his tank. The gas crawled through the filters of his helmets immediately, worming its way deep into his scarred lungs. As the world around him went dark, Joker was laughing.

_No, we don’t, daddy. I want to keep him forever!_

_No! Don’t! No please!_ The words choked in his throat, sudden panic tearing at what little sanity he had left. As the Joker’s grinning face sprang closer, the branding iron held firmly in his right hand, he found his mouth stitched together crudely, a bloody, silent mask of threads and puncture wounds. _Please no!_ Joker’s left foot was on his bound hands, crushing his wrists against the steps. He could feel a hand grasping his hair, holding his head steady on the stairs. Above his left eye, the glowing J descended with unwavering, terrifying certainty. _No!_

His flesh was on fire. Melting away under the hot metal as it scorched the skin and meat on his left cheek just beneath the eye. His eyeball felt as if someone was cooking it and he closed his eyes instinctively. The horrid smell of burnt flesh crept up his nose and onto his tongue, nearly causing his stomach to empty itself onto the floor tiles once more. As the iron was lifted, chunks of charred flesh still clung to it, but the pain lingered inside his cheek, burning its way deep into his bones.

 _I want to keep him forever!_ The words bounced off the walls of his prison and into his brain, even as the brand came down on his cheek again and again. To his right, one Joker was taking a drill to his feet, while another ripped the nail of his right pinky straight from its bed. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t scream. All around him, Joker was tearing him apart. Harley joined the party, a thousand needles poking into his arm, pumping him full of drugs. There was salt and absinth in his wounds. A dozen replacements rose up around him, crushing his ankle over and over with an electrified crowbar. His shoulders felt as if someone was trying to tear his arms from their sockets.

Suddenly, he was strung up on the hook again, dangling off one of the metal beams of Mercy Bridge, naked except for the thick layer of blood and dirt that covered his body and the shaggy mess of hair framing his head. His mind instantly retrieved the memories of the last time he had been broken and naked on the streets of Gotham and the bile rose into his throat. _And now you will pay me and my boys back for all the trouble you caused us tonight,_ Blake Bishop cooed in his head. It made his skin crawl. All around him, cars and people passed by without so much as a glance. He was nothing, less than nothing.

To his left, Dick looked at him with unveiled disgust. “You are truly a disgrace to the title of Robin, do you know that? Thank God Joker decided to keep you. I don’t even wanna think about having to deal with your incompetence again.” _Please, stop._

Barbara nodded next to him. “Not to mention you’re a pathetic little whiner. Boohoo, my past was so sad and horrible! Woe is me!” He felt her heels dig deep into one of the drill wounds on his bare feet. “Do you have any idea how sick and tired Alfred and I were of all your whining? He was practically begging Bruce to kick you out.” _Please, just stop!_

To his right, Alfred stood, his face stoic as ever. “I must admit, not having Master Todd in the manor anymore was a decidedly pleasant turn of events.” _Please, don’t!_

Lucius nodded in agreement. “It certainly made _my_ life easier. No more dealing with second-rate doodles from an over-confident, talentless hobby gadgeteer. Who in their right mind would be stupid enough to disable a tracker of all pieces?”

“You know, the old Fox does have a point there.” Joker’s bony fingers sneaked around Jason’s shoulder while his voice crawled into his ear. “You really have no one to blame for this but yourself. But then again…” The restraints were gone in a second. He fell to the ground and felt every cut, bruise and scar in his body explode into fresh pain. When he finally managed to roll over into a kneeling position, he found himself face to face with the replacement. Everyone else was watching from the sidelines as the boy’s boot kicked him hard in the face, sending two of his teeth flying. The staff came down, blow upon blow.

“Go get’em, Todders!” Joker yelled to his right.

“Kill the loser, Tim!” The rest of them cheered. “Kill him and throw his worthless ass into the bay!”

Suddenly, Jason’s head was underwater. The liquid burned like lava in his lungs. All he could do was laugh, laugh, laugh and laugh until he and Joker were in perfect synchronicity. The Knight felt the gun in his hand before he saw it, pushed back hard and turned around to shoot the replacement right between the eyes. The boy’s brains were splattered all over the asphalt. He took aim and unloaded the entire magazine into the gaggle of traitors laughing at him. By the time he was done, his trigger finger was cramping up. On the bright side, the family of liars lay dead in front of him. He dug the bullet out of his chest, loaded it into his weapon and sent it straight into the Clown’s head. Joker’s skull burst into a shower of red and grey confetti. Fatigue rolled over him like a Cobra tank and he hit the ground hard on the deep crowbar-induced scar next to his spine. When the pain finally faded and the haze cleared, he was back in Wayne Manor.

The plasterwork on the ceiling was Venetian red, as were the curtains and the bed sheets. The computer screen on the other side of the room glowed in warm crimson. Jason’s sketches were all over the room, from his nightmare-exorcising Rorschach doodles all the way to the flawlessly clean design for a new disruptor. _A gun that disables guns, trackers and jammers…_ He was no longer cold or hurting. He felt strangely at peace. That in and of itself was alarming. “Alfred is dead” Bruce’s voice stated matter-of-factly to his left. He turned his head to see the man Jason had once considered a father lying right next to him, his hands tucked between his head and the soft, red pillows. “You killed him, Jason.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Barbara, Dick, Lucius and Tim are dead, too. You killed them all. They are gone because of you, Jason.”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!!!” The rage burned darkly inside him, but something else was there. Something the Arkham Knight could not quite place his finger on. He rolled over onto his mentor and locked his hands tight around his throat, choking him with every ounce of his strength. “I am not that pathetic, whiny, good-for-nothing, useless brat!” He squeezed as hard as he could. _Just die already, old man!_ “I am better than him! Better than you! I always was and I always will be!”

“No, you’re not.” If Batman was in any discomfort, he did not show it. His voice sounded calm as ever. “You are nothing, Arkham Knight. And you will always be nothing.” All of a sudden, their positions were switched. Now he was the one with a hand on his throat. Above him, Batman towered all cowl and scowl, sending fist upon fist raining down onto his face. “I hate you! I hate you for killing them! I hate you for destroying my city! I hate you, Arkham Knight!” He readied himself for the next blow, but it never came. The Knight chuckled. _What’s the matter, savior? Is your precious morality holding you back again?_

When he looked up, all he could see was pity. “I hate you, Arkham Knight. But I love Jason. He was my student. My ally. My friend. My _son_. He always was and he always will be.” In the deepest depths of his soul, the Knight could feel the broken boy stir, a wrecked corpse writhing in ashes. _Stay down_ , he growled. _I don’t need you_. “I am sorry for failing him.” The Dark Knight continued. “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him. I searched for him right up until the day Joker sent me the film.” _Liar!_ “I only brought on Tim to help find him.” _Liar, liar, LIAR!_ “And no matter what horrible things Joker did to him and no matter what monstrous things YOU made him do…” Bruce’s face was right on top of his now. He wanted be anywhere but here. “I am proud of the young man he was, the young man I know he can be. And I forgive him.”

 _No, no, no, no, no, no, no…_ He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, the trembling in his hand as Jason reared his mutilated head from the ashes of the tiled room with the meat hooks and the damp chill. Jason was an idiot. Jason was a whiner. A useless piece of trash that had never been worth anything in his life. He would not lose to someone that pathetic. He could not. He watched wide-eyed as Batman got up and extended his hand like Barbara and Alfred had done so many times before. “Come home, Jason.”

Screaming against the feeling of hope rising in his chest, the Arkham Knight scrambled off the bed and out into the burning city in terror.


	13. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the night, Scarecrow and the Arkham Knight have been urging him to wait, to make Bruce suffer, and it has cost him dearly. Jason Todd is not waiting anymore. Only one of them will get out of Killinger’s intact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: PTSD, psychosis; references to past torture and non-consensual drug use and sexual abuse; graphic violence, lots of tearjerkers  
> Side notes: This is probably the scene I looked forward to writing the most. And, yes, I actually went back through the entire game and tallied every soldier and drone encountered. I’m crazy like that.

His lungs were on fire, as was the J on his cheek. All throughout his body little flares of pain were still burning underneath the scars. His ankle and shoulders felt ready to shatter. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Thinking hurt. Feeling hurt. He was faintly aware of tremors wrecking his battered body as he curled up on the dirty mattress of a ramshackle shelter someone had set up on this rooftop. He didn’t even know which of the three islands he was on, but it didn’t matter.

_It’s above the gas. That’s the only thing that matters._

The last three hours had been hell. He knew that it had been three hours because the Cloudburst had been activated just past midnight and the clock on his visor now read 03:14 hours. Three hours in hell.

Jason had dragged his way out of the ashes of Arkham with Batman’s help, at Batman’s request, really. _Come home_. The words still echoed in the Knight’s brain. They were words of hope and hope was the worst thing in the world as far as the Knight was concerned. Another act. Another lie. A hook to catch the desperate. Jason had risen to the bait, only for Batman to turn back into the Joker, only to be cast back into the room with the dirty tiles and the branding iron and a thousand Jokers tearing him apart, followed by another emotional beat down on Mercy Bridge, which had led back to the Knight and the manor and Batman. He had lost count of just how many times the nightmare had repeated, stuck in a loop, a vicious cycle of madness, fear and pain. Batman. Joker. They were one and the same and they were both better off dead.

Of course it had been up to him, the Arkham Knight, to come up with a solution. _Again._ It’s not like Jason had ever done anything to save himself. The nightmare had eventually ended when the Knight had shot himself in the foot. Literally. The realness of this pain, this actual real-life, not a fear gas induced hallucination pain had dragged him out of the madness, the panic, the fear. The gas had been gone by then, replaced by glowing white pollen from Ivy’s mutant plants. From what he could gather over the real-time strategic map on his visor, she had taken care of the whole batch and the whole batch had taken care of her. He could not have cared less. He had stepped over a street full of corpses of worthless scum and raided the nearest pharmacy for some disinfectant and bandages. The bullet had gone clean through, making for an easy patch-up. He had contemplated the painkillers on the shelf for all of ten seconds before deciding that he was not going to drug himself after all. Even now, three years later, the thought of giving up even an ounce of control over this body left him queasy.

As the trembling slowly faded and his body finally went from scorching and freezing back to acceptable temperature ranges, the Knight finally had a chance to take stock of his options.

The Cloudburst was gone and with it almost all of Crane’s fear gas. Scarecrow would be furious. If he wasn’t in command already, Deathstroke would soon be taking charge of the militia.

Batman on the other hand was most likely going after Crane now. He had spent the last three hours taking out the remaining watchtowers, bombs and roadblocks. According to GCPD channels, the cells were getting pretty crowded in the lock-up. Dent, Cobblepot, Lynns and a couple of other crazies were down there as well. “I wish I had some bombs to drop on that place.”

 _I will murder you if you try_ , Jason growled, his voice now louder than ever.

This was by far the worst thing that had come out of the Knight’s fear-gas-induced trip into the abyss of his broken soul. Before, Jason had been little more than an occasional, annoying voice and a few fists full of rage. Now, he was almost as much of a consistent background noise as Joker’s laughter. He had a hard time figuring out which was worse.

It was the glaring red light coming down from atop the roof on the opposite side of the street that made him bolt from his hideout. _Sentry guns_. Someone was setting up a watchtower. Within a minute, the Arkham diamond was hanging from the side of the building. He crouched in the shadows and listened as the unit leader started barking at his men.

 _Anderson_ , Jason deduced. They were using different comms channels now, but that would hardly stop him for more than ten seconds. He fiddled with the settings of his blue helmet until the voices came loud and clear through his audio filters. “Alright gentlemen,” Lieutenant Anderson growled, “…as you have probably noticed, we have switched commanders. Our first order is to hold this position at all costs until the Bat is dead.”

“Seriously?” _Wilson_ _._ “The gas is gone. ACE is gone. Cloudburst is gone. Hell, the Knight is gone. What the hell does this assassin think this is? A suicide mission? What the hell happened to our exfil?”

Anderson took a deep breath. “There will be no exfil.” As expected, the announcement was met with a loud outcry. He could practically feel the oncoming mutiny in his bones. Someone in command of some unit would get a knife to the back today. “Our first order is to hold this position at all costs.”

“First?” Wilson retorted. “What else does he want us to do? Kiss his ass? Fuck the assassin.”

“Our second order comes directly from Scarecrow,” Anderson corrected, “and I don’t think any of you will like it.” Another deep breath. Anderson looked about ready to get into cover for fear of getting shot to pieces. “If we see the Arkham Knight, we’re to shoot him on sight and bring him back to Scarecrow. Alive if possible.”

 _I’ll be damned…_ The Knight didn’t know whether that statement should make him laugh or rage. On the one hand, he had fully expected Crane to turn on him at some point. On the other, it was a fresh, new betrayal in a long litany of betrayals. He eventually decided that he was definitely going to murder the son of a bitch.

Anderson had been right. No one liked it. All around him, his men cried out in protest. Only one soldier did not complain. The Knight couldn’t see the face hidden behind the gas mask, but he would have recognized the voice anywhere. “Fuck Scarecrow!” Hadley’s weapon fell to the wet ground with a loud thud. “And fuck Deathstroke. I signed up to help the Knight take down the Bat, not the other way around.”

“Pick up your gun, Hadley…” Anderson growled. “You’re still part of this militia and I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

“You’re welcome to give it your best shot, Anderson.” Perched atop the water tank behind his former Lieutenant, the Knight couldn’t help but crack a smile. The fact that none of them had noticed him grappling in and sneaking up on them only proved that Deathstroke was fighting a losing battle. He just did not know it yet. “So, which one of you is gonna try to shoot me first?” He watched his men back off, the same apprehensive looks on their faces as they had had in training camp, each time he had kicked their asses during the sparring sessions. To the Knight’s surprise, the only one reaching for his gun was Hadley. He picked up the rifle carefully and put himself between his commander and his unit.

“Any of you move a single finger, I’m gonna blow your brains out. We’re the Arkham Knight’s militia. Not Scarecrow’s militia. Or Deathstroke’s.”

“Thank you, Hadley.” Perhaps not all was lost yet after all. “Now, anyone of you wanna give me an update on the current situation? The Cloudburst fried my equipment.” It was only half a lie. The Cloudburst itself had not fried anything. The Cloudburst-enhanced fear gas on the other hand…

“Commissioner’s been apprehended and… briefed… on stage three. Scarecrow had him send an encrypted transmission on a SWAT channel to lure in the Bat.”

“Jesus, Hadley, are you out of your mind?” Wilson had turned the color of a piece of chalk. “You do know that they are monitoring our communications, right?”

Hadley just shrugged his shoulders. “Even Deathstroke can’t have his ears everywhere. You think he gives a flying fuck what any of us are doing as long as this watchtower’s operational?”

“So keep it operational” the Knight sneered. “I don’t want any of you switching off, not for one second, do you understand?” He grappled off into the night without waiting for the answer, although he was faintly aware of Hadley muttering an amused ‘yes, sir’ in response. If what Hadley had told him was right, Batman would be at HQ soon to rescue Gordon. It would be his last chance to end it all. This time, there would be no stalling, no catering to anyone else’s plans and needs. He would get Bruce to confess his crimes, his lies, and then he’d put a bullet through his head. But first, he needed to wreck that car.

The tunnels underneath Killinger’s were the perfect hunting ground and he knew just the right weapon to bring to this fight. Through the new broadcasting channel, Scarecrow’s voice came loud and clear, unflinching as always. Once Bruce was dead, he would give the doctor a taste of his own medicine. “Batman has arrived ahead of schedule. Lock down the elevators and find him.” The Knight did his best to ignore the continuous taunting and laughter in his ears and the constant throbbing in his injured foot as he made his way to the abandoned excavation machine. The crew that would normally have operated it had long since been evacuated and was probably watching Central Gotham going to hell from the safety of the mainland. It was a hideous thing of ugly dark grey metal and when he had first seen it, he had absentmindedly asked his crew if they had chanced to find one in black, but it was strong enough to tunnel through hundreds of feet of stone and concrete. It would definitely be enough to crush the Batmobile into thousands of bits and pieces. He leafed quickly through the instruction manual stashed beneath the seat. Whoever had designed this thing had at least done him the favor of keeping the controls simple. He reconfigured the scanners of his red helmet to search for traces of nearby Nimbus fields and felt a smile creep across his lips as the little dot of white appeared on his map. _No more hiding…_

***

He watched the rubble fall away from the drills in thick chunks of rock and concrete as the excavator tunneled out of the ground. For a moment, all he could do was wonder if that’s what the bits and pieces of his feet had looked like to the tiny ants all over the floor of his cell as Joker had drilled hole after hole into his feet. He would be happy to pay Bruce back for that one by drilling hole after hole into his car.

“I did ask if it came in black, but then I thought, nah, you'd just get all jealous.” Less than ten feet from his own seat, Batman was scowling at him, clearly exasperated with the continuous interruptions of his valiant rescue. “You didn't think I was gone, did you? No, no, you knew better.” _Or at least you would, if you cared who I was_ , the Knight thought with fresh anger. _Surely the world’s greatest detective does at least have some suspicions by now, does he not?_ “You get knocked down, you pick yourself up again, huh? See, I learned that from an old friend.” ‘Friend’ was quite possibly the last word he would want to use to describe that man. Or maybe the second-to-last at least. His fingers curled around the triggers, sending the drills spinning one more. Batman looked at them for all of half a second before turning the car around and racing down the tunnel.

 _Running again like the dirty coward that you are…_ “You're not getting away!” The excavator followed swiftly, much faster than either of them had anticipated. All around him, hazard warnings flashed red, signaling him to slow down because he was about to crush something. _Good._ They only intensified his rage.

He caught the glimpse of the first explosive charge just before it burst against the hull of his vehicle. What the excavator had in speed, it had lost in maneuverability and he cringed hard as the remaining explosives detonated against the frame. He would probably have continued drifting despite full-on brakes for at least another hundred feet if it had not been for the ceiling crumbling all around and burying him in pitch black darkness. It brought back painful memories of a room with no exits except for a stupid trap door atop an insurmountable stairway.

Tunneling out of the rubble was not an issue. He followed the three-dimensional coordinates on the GPS monitor to emerge just south of where he had gotten stuck. What was an issue was that the crash had wrecked the sonar and the nimbus scanner. It was like being back in the Cloudburst on Bleake Island, only underground. More hide and seek. But this time, there was no way out. His militia had locked down these tunnels long ago. It was only a matter of time. “You can't stop me!” The Knight growled through his comms unit. “You're going to die down here, forgotten, in the dirt,” Jason added. _Just like you let Robin die, forgotten, in the dirt._

Another warning light flashed, this time indicating contact on his right side. He turned the excavator and smiled. “There you are!” He watched the Batmobile sneak through a long line of barriers and metal fans that broke like twigs under the drills. In his mind, he could already see the pieces of scrap littering the ground. “This is it, Batman.”

This time, the explosions knocked him out of his seat. More warnings flashed on the dashboard, even as the darkness closed in. Hull breach on the left side. _Like I care…_ He picked himself back up and checked the controls. Nothing critical had been damaged. He took a deep breath and moved to tunnel out of the rubble.

“Stop this, Knight.” Scarecrow’s voice slithered through the militia channel, a mocking, patronizing gesture of fake comfort. “Everything is in hand.”

“We're done, Crane!” _And we should have been done a long time ago_ , Jason thought sourly. _We would have been done at ACE if it had been up to me._ “I owe him.”

“We had a plan.” Whatever pretense of cooperation Scarecrow had been trying to keep up, he had dropped it now. This was the voice that few people had ever heard. The frustrated Scarecrow. The annoyed Scarecrow. The man who was not as above it all as he believed. Another lie exposed. “He's going to suffer.”

“He is going to die.” Just once, the heavens smiled on him and he rounded the corner to see the Batmobile no more than a hundred meters in front. “You won't get away!” This time, the barricades were higher, but the drills tore through them nonetheless. Jason hoped Bruce felt the unwavering certainty of his oncoming demise just as he had all those years ago. The tungsten-coated tips almost touched the back of car when another set of charges exploded around him.

This time, something had definitely broken. He rubbed his left shoulder to relieve the fresh mess of pain that had erupted there as he had been thrown against the hull. Somewhere in the left part of the hull, a fire had caught. The ventilation systems were out. Any sane man would have left the excavator at this point.

Jason had not been sane in a very, very long time. He wasn’t sure if he had ever been.

“Scarecrow's right.” Chunks of rock tumbled off the cracked hull as he emerged once more. “The world should see you for the worthless thing you are. But I already know. And I'm not waiting anymore.” If his memory served right, there was only one more access tunnel left. He followed the perimeter clockwise and was not surprised to find the Batmobile waiting for him. _Just a little faster this time…_

_“Fifteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds.” Bruce stated as a matter of fact. “Twenty-eight seconds too slow. Just a little faster next time and you can keep the suit.”_

The memory wormed its way back from some twisted, dark corner of his mind that he hadn’t even known existed. Back then, he had glared at Bruce like a child who had just been sent to bed without dinner. It had been the eighth time he had failed his ‘Robin graduation exam’ because of that stupid time trial race from the Manor to Blackgate. That morning, he _had_ gone to bed without dinner. He had locked the door to his room upon his return and his only reaction to Alfred bringing him tea and food had been “leave me alone”. Two days later, he had taken the test again and passed. It had been the beginning of the end. The birth of a boy soldier who’d be dead a little more than a year later.

 _A pathetic, hopeful, naïve fool_ , the Knight thought, even as the world exploded around him before plunging back into darkness. Bruce did not know it yet, just like he hadn’t known it back then, but this would be the last time he would fail, just like it had been the last time back then. This time, there was no way out.

He came up just behind the Batmobile and just in front of the intersection that would lead back to the tunnel grid. Bruce had disabled the door lock. The Knight would have given anything to see the look on his face when he had realized that it was still a dead end. The Bat’s nine lives were over. “No way out. I did it. Cornered you. Done what no one else could.” Some purely instinctive part of him was aware that the fire had made its way into the cockpit. He barely felt the heat over all the other pains in his body and yet it was all worth it, even just for this moment. Underneath the red mask, his lips curved into a grin. “All these years, all your enemies. But none of them understands you like I do.” _Just kill him already_ , Jason begged, but the Knight ignored him. This was his moment of triumph. No one was taking this from him. “You think Crane found Oracle on his own? I'm the one who told him about Barbara. Me! I told you I knew everything about you, didn't I?” _Is the shoe finally dropping, ‘Batman’?_ _Do you care now? Do you wonder how I know? Do you shudder to think what else I know, what else I revealed?_ “But don't worry, _Bruce_.” _If you don’t know now, then you truly are the biggest fraud that ever disgraced MY city._ “I kept some secrets to myself.”

His fingers came down hard on the triggers, his wounded foot screamed in pain as he pushed it down on the pedal. The Arkham Knight watched in glee as the metal tore its way into the back of the tank, ripping it apart layer by layer until it hit solid rock again. He reversed to give himself room to leave and exited from the burning cockpit that was starting to turn gray from smoke. “Forgotten. In the dirt.” His hands tore through the debris quickly, flinching ever so slightly as some scorching hot parts landed in his hands. Wheels, door, windshield, suspensions…

_Where the hell are you?_

The feeling rose slowly in his chest, first nothing more than a whisper of dread, but eventually an anguished cry of frustration. He finally gave way to the fury balled up inside and screamed into the darkness of the tunnel as his hands came up empty. The car was in pieces. Batman was not. _Where the hell…_

 _Always look up._ Jason had learned that lesson years before he had met Batman. It was the first lesson drilled into any crook in Gotham, even into an eight-year old stealing car parts for cash. _Always. Look. Up._ The wire scar that circled his neck itched fiercely at the familiar motion. “Damn you, Bruce.” He could see the ledge even in the darkness of the tunnel. _A service tunnel, maybe? Or a ventilation shaft?_ Whatever it was, it had helped Bruce escape again. He slammed his fist hard against the wall and screamed once more. This could not be happening. Not again. His hands reached for his guns instinctively. Fully loaded. No damage from the explosions and the fire.

This was what the Arkham Knight’s constant bragging and stalling had brought him. He would do it the old way then. As he grappled up to follow his prey, Jason could hear the cries of his soldiers getting their asses kicked, with Gordon providing encouragement to his ‘savior’. In Jason’s head, it was a gaggle of traitors cheering for his replacement. By the time he slipped out of the grate, the Dark Knight was just about ready to free the Commissioner.

“Turn around.” Was that the pain from all his old scars and fresh bruises or the anger that made his voice shake? Jason couldn’t tell and he couldn’t care. This was the end. One of them was not getting out of this room alive.

“Who are you?”

That stumped him. After everything he had done tonight, after all the ways he had proven to possess knowledge no-one else could possibly have, after calling Bruce by his _own name_ , he still hadn’t figured it out? _World’s greatest detective, my ass!_ “You really have no idea…” His fingers went up to the release mechanism on the helmet almost instinctively. Part of him wanted nothing more than to bolt out the door. This was the point of no return. “Do you, Bruce?”

“Jason?” _Genuine surprise_. At least as far as Jason could tell. Bruce was nothing if not stoic. Being Gotham’s most eligible bachelor and most effective vigilante at the same time had taught him a lot about feigning small talk and other social pleasantries, but surprise had never been in Bruce’s repertoire. “But… you’re dead.”

“What’s the matter? Lost for words? I expected more…” He _had_ expected more, although what exactly he was not sure. Part of him had thought Bruce would take the logical route, chalk it up as nothing but a fear-gas-induced hallucination. Mostly he had expected a lot of disgust, rage and disappointment. And even though he hated to admit it and the Knight rolled his eyes just thinking about it, there was a part stuck deep inside him that had hoped for joy, for relief, for gratitude. A part that had hoped for a ‘thank God, you’re alive’ or a ‘I am so happy to see you’. Then again, he doubted Bruce would be happy to see the man who had brought Gotham to the brink of destruction. Not unless that man was called Richard Grayson or Tim Drake, at least. He had expected anger, resentment, disappointment, but apparently Bruce did not even think him worthy of that. That’s _because to him you are nothing, less than nothing_ , the Knight growled. _You always were and you always will be._ The pain stung worse than the J on his cheek. “I’m hurt.”

“Joker sent me the film…” There was nothing left of Bruce’s usual forcefulness, the power that carried over every word and action. “I saw him kill you.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me!” The thought had turned into a scream accentuated by a wave of his gun before he could stop it. _How dare he?_ After everything they had been through Bruce had the nerve to lie to him, to pretend that he had not given up so soon? The memory came back just as uninvited as all the ones before it. Joker with the picture of the new Robin, his own Robin’s last, gasping ‘no’, before the crowbar shattered what was left of his hope. The pictures and articles all over the wall. Business as usual. Maybe Bruce had not known that he was ‘dead’, but he sure as hell had not bothered to look and NOW he had the nerve to try and justify his actions? The rage burned darkly in his chest, a garbled pit of pain. _Four-hundred and forty-two days._

“How long did you wait before replacing me? A month? A week?” If Bruce had anything to say about that, he was not in the mood to share. The shock was gone from his eyes now, replaced once more by the stoic mask. That only made it worse. “I trusted you…” Jason finally admitted.

Trust had never been high on his list of blessings. He had not been able to trust his father not to threaten his wife and kid to pick up his gun and shoot them both. He had not been able to trust his mother not to get so baked out of her mind she wouldn’t even remember his face. He had tried trust once with Cory and Michael and it had backfired horribly, leaving invisible scars that had crippled him emotionally for life. He had given it one last shot with Bruce and the rest of the bat-family. He remembered the many training sessions with Dick, in which he had trusted his ‘brother’ to catch him if he fell, the many design conversations with Lucius, in which he had trusted him with what little talent he had, with his only life-long passion. He remembered the lessons with Barbara and the many cookies-and-tea conversations with Alfred, in which he had occasionally voiced out loud memories and thoughts he had never presumed to share with anyone, laying bare his very soul even just for a fraction of a second. He remembered that cold rainy April morning, little more than a month before his capture, in which he had finally trusted Bruce with his greatest fear, the idea that it was all just an act, a cruel joke on him. It had taken him every shred of courage in his body to leave himself so vulnerable, so defenseless in the hands of this force of nature that was Bruce Wayne, the Batman. He remembered Bruce’s promise. His promise that it was not a joke. That he would never abandon Jason.

He should have listened to his instincts. He should have run from the manor and never returned. Because it was a lie. It was an act. A cruel joke. How ironic that it had taken Joker for him to see it. _I trusted you, Bruce. For the first time in my life, I truly, from the bottom of my heart and soul, trusted someone…_ “And you just left me to die!”

“That’s not what happened.”

 _Oh, yes, because you were THERE in the Asylum when Joker ripped me apart, right,_ the Knight growled. The nerve of this bastard… _You know what happened to me because YOU had the video of ONE DAY out of forty-hundred and fucking forty-two. A video sent to you by JOKER. What more evidence would anyone need, right?_

“You always told me, Bruce… focus on what I want to achieve… and it’ll happen. Well you want to know what I want now, huh?” He pushed his gun up hard against Batman’s chin. There was fury in the Dark Knight’s eyes now. Did he think HE was the victim in this entire charade? “I want you dead.”

Bruce’s forehead connected with his just as his right hand was knocked to the side. Through the audio receivers of his blue helmet he could hear the ringing of the alarm that signaled broken sensors. The blue one would be useless now. He drew his second gun instinctively and fired a dozen rounds into Bruce’s general direction. When he realized that all his shots had missed, he was not surprised. There was no room for surprise in a world of pain. “You can’t hide from me! I will hunt you down!” The gun in his right shifted smoothly into its sniper rifle position. It was time to show Bruce the final trick he had learnt in his time since escaping from the Asylum. He connected both pieces and felt the trembling of his hands recede slowly as the familiar weight of the sniper rifle rested against his fingers. The useless blue helmet, now sparking thanks to a short circuit, came off without a hitch. He closed the red helmet around his face and grappled up. One shot was all he would need.

Perched up high on a gargoyle above the commissioner, his eyes scanned the room carefully. If he had known that Batman would survive this long, he would have cleared the damn boxes out of here, eradicated what little cover was left. “How long before you stopped searching for me, hm?” Bruce still hadn’t answered his question. It made him sick. “How long before you gave up?” _It must have been less than six months_ , the Knight reasoned. Where else would the picture have come from? “Did you even look for me?” That thought was even more frightening. In his head, the fear-gas-induced vision replayed over and over. Bruce had merely been waiting for a reason to kick him out, hadn’t he? “Or did you just look for a replacement?” That would make a lot more sense, particularly since Joker had practically kept him hidden right around the corner. Which brought him to another question he had been dying to ask. “Do you know where Joker kept me? I was so close.”

He heard the sharp click of the grapnel gun connecting just before he saw the shadow sweep up to grab his rifle and bend him over the edge. The feeling was infuriatingly familiar. Many of their first stealth training sessions had ended with him dangling over one ledge or another. “Jason, I can help you!” _Another lie. What is done, is done_. Jason had tried. When he had first escaped from the Asylum, he had had a chance to go back and he had not been able to do it. When he had first started snapping necks of criminals in Santa Prisca and the papers had referred to him as a Soledad’s Batman, he had tried going back to the vigilante thing if only for practice, but every motion had felt empty and hollow. It had been Gray, one of his best soldiers, who had eventually summarized the problem perfectly when another militia member had recounted his trauma.

People are like snakes. If they suffer too much trauma, the weak ones die. The strong ones shed their skin and live. But no matter how hard a snake may try to crawl back into its old skin, it never will manage. No damage done to a person ever fully heals.

It was that day that the Knight had realized the full extent of the futility of Jason’s secret doubts and hopes. It was why he had decided to name all his tanks and drones after snakes. There was no more going back. “There’s no helping me!”

Despite his best efforts, the shot missed. He triggered the grenade as he fell and rolled under the shutter before grappling up again. The fall had brought back the nerve damage in his shoulders with a vengeance. It was time to let in the cavalry. “You’re not the only one with sidekicks!” He watched in silent anticipation and cold fury as his men fanned out into the room, only to be taken down one by one. The drone was still circling, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Bruce had come up with some way to scramble its sensors. It wasn’t until there was no more radio chatter that his lips moved again.

“I was just a kid. You turned me into a soldier. Sent me to war.” He had not even turned fourteen yet when Bruce had taken him in. Not even two years later, he had been a soldier in a uniform that did not fit, caught in the crosshairs of two equally delusional madmen. He had never even had a chance at the normal life. He had not been old enough to drive, drink, vote or any of the other bullshit that adults were supposed to do. Hell, his first kiss had come from an underage sex slave three years later. “It was all about you, what Joker did. He ruined me to spite you!” Something moved to his far right. He fired the shot instinctively. “Do you even know what Joker did to me?” All over his body, the scars were once more alight in red, hot pain. _Drills, saws, wire, nails, hammers, pliers—Push it down, Jason, the Knight admonished. We don’t have time for this._ But all he could think about was poison cake, sadistic heads-I-win-tails-you-lose choices, drug-fueled frenzies and a hundred other ways of torture that had not left any visible marks. “The games he used to play? This is mercy compared to what he put me through.”

This time, when the shadow grappled up, only one hand was on the gun, the other resting firmly on his left shoulder. The touch was at once painfully familiar and terrifyingly strange. _Move, goddamn it_ , the Knight shouted in his head, but his limbs would not budge. _Why won’t you just do it?_ Jason was confused. If Batman wanted him disarmed, now was as good a time as any.

“Joker got to you, I know what it’s like!”

 _Another lie. Another pretentious lie!_ There was no way Bruce could have any idea of what was going on inside his head. No-one could. “Don’t pretend to understand!”

The grenade erupted into scarlet smoke. This time, he kept the shutters closed. If he couldn’t snipe Bruce, he could at least smoke the bastard. “You'll die in there. In pain.” His shoulders were on fire as he grappled back up onto another gargoyle. The J burnt like thermite in his cheek. “I learnt how to take a little pain, Batman! I learned from the best.” And it was time to bring in the best. He flipped the switch on his gauntlet and watched as the squad moved in. Benson, Carr, Gray, Ortega, Shepard and Stevens. The six with the highest score throughout all stealth training sessions. “But you can’t hurt, what you can’t see. Optic deflection armor. Your sensors won’t work. Use your eyes, Batman. If you remember how.” He had designed the armor himself. He had spent days drawing up the designs and putting the pieces together, followed by weeks of fine-tuning and lots of cursing as little glitches here and there rendered the equipment vulnerable to tampering, but eventually he had done it. He had created what was quite possibly the first cowl-proof armor ever. He wondered if Lucius would be at least a little proud of him if he knew.

 _Oh, yes, I’m sure the old Fox would be positively impressed by just how much effort you’ve put into killing his meal ticket_ , Joker cooed in his brain. _You really turned out great, Todders._ Jason could feel the bile rise in his throat as the laughter grew louder in his head. Someone was shouting something over the comms, but it was garbled and lost in a sea of raspy laughter. His hands trembled around the trigger, his breath hitched in his throat. By the time his lungs remembered how to breathe, his squad was gone. “I can still hear him laughing.” He felt sick just saying it, but somehow, it also felt good. Like removing a huge weight from his shoulders. There was no point to running from the truth. “He's still in my head!” _And no amount of sympathy you feign for me will ever let you even remotely relate to that_ , Jason thought sourly. Bruce was not the one going to sleep with nightmares every day. _Bruce is obviously not the one having panic attacks in the middle of a crucial fight_ , the Knight stabbed back. “You had so many chances to kill him.” That was also true. How many times had he begged Bruce to make an exception for this unredeemable pile of garbage? “It's your fault Joker got to me!”

This time, both hands were on the rifle. Trapped between the wall and his own weapon, all Jason could feel was the agony spreading through his body as every muscle tensed against the weight pushing against him. “Stand down, Robin!”

 _Robin…_ Robin was dead. Robin had been dead for a long time now and even before he had died, Robin had been nothing more than a paper-thin illusion, a bird with paper shreds for feathers, doomed to fail from the start. “Don’t call me that! That’s not who I am!” He decided to return the favor from before and slam his helmet into Batman’s cowl only to be thrown off the gargoyle. He landed hard on the crowbar-induced scar next to his spine and bit his own lip bloody to keep from crying out. His last flash bang grenade went off without a hitch. “There's no escape. Not this time.” So why was he not surprised when the motion sensors on the ceiling triggered the shutter between him and the main room? _Relentless, as always_. It was part of Batman’s strategy. Scare them into surrender with the sheer idea of something that will stalk you and haunt you for the rest of your life until you give up or get knocked out. It worked with almost everyone. It would not work with him. Not anymore. He had been there with Joker. He was over it. “I’m not afraid of you, Bruce. You’re not a legend to me.” Joker had taught him that much, and for all the pain the Clown had caused him, at least he had opened his eyes to the truth. “Joker made me hate you, but you let him do it. You're no hero. No savior.”

Jason turned the instant the grapple connected, but it was already too late. An armored forearm connected hard with his wrist, sending the rifle falling to the ground. Batman’s fist connected hard, sending him tumbling backwards and slamming hard against the wall. Everything in his body hurt. All of a sudden, the fatigue of the last ten hours crept up on him, the endless onslaught of nerve-wracking defeat after defeat, the near-death explosions he had survived twice, the fear gas, the endless laughter… Some part of him was aware that Bruce was tearing the Batclaw-deflecting Arkham-diamond-stamped breast plate off his chest, just as a patient waking up from a dose of sedatives would be aware of their surroundings for the first time. Now, there was nothing but a bullet proof suit and an old, faded, blood-coated bullet between him and Bruce.

“You’re Robin, Jason. You’re not what he made you!”

 _Just end it, please_ , Jason thought. He was tired of this. Tired of all the pain. “Stop!” The Knight was sick and tired as well. He was not Jason and he was certainly not Robin. “Stop talking to me!” He launched himself forward with what little strength remained only to send both himself and his prey falling hard onto the metal ground. The protruding circles felt like lumps of ice against his back. His red helmet was broken, too, now. He could see the tinting was almost gone, the sensors scrambled. Error messages flashed one after the other and Bruce was on him again. _Maybe it was not just the fear gas, after all_ , the Knight mused. _Come on then, Bruce, show us what you really are. Smash my face in and let this loser know that it was all an act_. He could feel Jason’s panic rise once more, fear opening his eyes wide and sending Arkham’s chill back into his bones. This would be the kid’s last living moments. Joker had shattered Robin and Batman would shatter Jason. It was only fair. All it would take was one good, hard punch from the man he had once dared to trust.

But the punch never came.

The Knight watched in confusion as Batman slowly lowered his arm and backed off. What was that in his eyes? Disgust? Indifference? Pity?

_Empathy._

The word felt strange in Jason’s skull. Empathy had not exactly been big in his vocabulary either, since it usually came along with trust. And the trust had been a lie. Hadn’t it?

“You did this to me!”

“I’m sorry.”

That was something else he had never seen in Bruce. Another strange feeling he could not quite put a word on. Bruce believed himself infallible, didn’t he? He never doubted himself, never thought he did anything wrong. Bruce was certainty incarnate. He couldn’t possibly be _sorry_ for anything, could he? _Another lie_ , the Knight growled. _Another dirty lie_. His hand curled around the back-up pistol instinctively. _Always bring a spare_. “You left me to rot in that abandoned wing of Arkham… for over a year…” Four-hundred and forty-two days in hell. “… with HIM!”

“It’s not too late.” All of a sudden, Bruce’s hand was in front of him. He had seen this so many times before. With Alfred, with Barbara. Even with Dick and Lucius. But never with Bruce. This could not be real. This could not be happening. The last time he had heard Bruce’s voice that sincere, that somber, that emotional, was when he had promised never to abandon Jason. “We can fix this… Together.”

 _Come home._ The words bounced around his skull. _He LOST you and he MOURNED for you. Come home_ , Barbara’s voice was like spun glass against Joker’s laughter. _Shoot the son of a bitch_ , the Knight growled in fury. _Remember what happened last time he said ‘come home’? Do you want to go back to the psychopath with the crowbar?_

But the psychopath with the crowbar was dead and Bruce was not. It was not for lack of trying. Jason and the Arkham Knight had certainly tried, but where had that gotten him? Where had all this anger, this pain, gotten him? Had it made his life any better? Had it ended his nightmares? Had he achieved… anything? In his mind, the numbers tallied up at lightning speed. Eight-hundred and fifty soldiers, fifty-two medics, fifty-two combat experts, forty-three heavy-weight soldiers with weapons that could tear a man to shreds in seconds, thirteen camouflage units, twenty-six aerial drones, thirteen bombs, fourteen pythons, ten APCs, a hundred armored cars, eight-hundred and forty drones, twenty-six cobra drones, two tanks designed for Bat killing, one cloudburst, thousands of gallons of fear gas, three billion dollars, one mad scientist, one deadly assassin and a city full of psychopaths. One Arkham Knight. Three years of his life. Ten hours of war. He had turned Gotham into a warzone, kidnapped Barbara and put a bullet into the man himself and yet, despite everything, despite all the horrors, all the pain, this was what Bruce had to say to him, even in danger of death by gunshot to the face. _We can fix this… Together._

Together had been another one of those rusty words in Jason’s vocabulary. It hadn’t been very common in Bruce’s either. Why would he say it now, to someone who had tried so hard to kill him and destroy everything he stood for? Suddenly his arm felt too heavy to lift a pebble, much less a pistol. He felt it drop, just like his head. Too weary and in too much pain to go on. Everything hurt. Moving hurt. Not moving hurt. Thinking hurt. In the hazy sea of pain, only one thing was suddenly clear. He was asking questions he already knew the answers to. He had just been too afraid to believe them. Too afraid that the Knight might be right and it would all just be a lie.

_Because Barbara was right. Because Jason was right. Because you ARE family._

Jason didn’t know whose voice that was or where it had come from. Robin was dead. Robin was ashes. But it sure as hell was not the Arkham Knight.

“Alfred, it’s… I’ve found Jason.”

 _Oh God, Alfred…_ The name made Jason’s stomach curl into a Gordian knot. He heard the tell-tale buzz of Bruce’s gauntlet holo link activating. What had he done? How was he going to explain this – all of this – to Alfred? How would he even be able to look him in the eye now? Him. Or Barbara. Or Lucius. Or Dick? Or _Bruce_ for that matter?

_What have I done… What have I done… What have I done… What have I done…_ _What have I done…_


	14. Bat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has all been a lie. Everything he has believed has been a lie. The Arkham Knight has been a lie. Faced with the truth, all Jason can do is run and hide as his traumatized mind and soul try to reconcile his reality with the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: PTSD, psychosis, attempted suicide/self-harm, references to past torture, non-consensual drug use and sexual abuse; graphic violence, swearing  
> Side notes: Some truly heavy stuff in this chapter. This part ticked me off the most in-game, because Jason just goes from A to O with no explanation. Hopefully, this fills the blanks.

_What. Have. I. Done?_

He scrambled up the wall and through a ventilation shaft, accidentally crushing the poor repair drone that had been clearing out the rubble at the bottom of the chute under his armored boots. The impact sent fresh agony through his shot foot, adding to the multitude of pains that were already wrecking his battered body. Every bruise, every scar was suddenly fresh and new and yet his feet carried onwards through winding halls and half-empty rooms. All around him, the Arkham diamond hung off the walls, mocking him, daring him to look back. In his head, Joker’s laughter had grown so loud he might as well have been standing in front of a jet engine. Only one thing overshadowed it: the Arkham Knight’s furious raging.

_TURN AROUND, YOU COWARD! TURN AROUND, YOU PATHETIC, WORTHLESS PILE OF MISERY AND PUT A BULLET THROUGH HIS BRAIN!!!_

The rusty lock of the door to the service entrance came apart under the sheer speed and force of his blind charge. He did not know where he was. He did not know where he was going. All he knew was that he could not be back there. With Bruce. With Alfred. Underneath Jason’s feet, the floor turned quickly from smooth concrete to stone and rough road. His brain had barely registered the sound of the screeching tires. His eyes had barely caught the glimpse of red as it rushed towards him and yet his body was somehow smart enough to get his feet off the ground and his arms folded against the side of his head. It was the difference between two snapped legs plus a broken skull and the harsh impact of an armored hood and windshield against his left flank and back. By the time he was done rolling off the hood and down road, everything hurt twice as much.

The first thing he noticed was the sting of dirt against cuts in his face as he breathed out. Some part of him had the frightening realization that this meant his red helmet was broken now as well and that he likely had shards of it stuck in his cheeks. _Let them be stuck_ , the Arkham Knight scowled. _There isn’t much to ruin there anyway._

“Holy shit! Boss?” The voice sounded distant through the garbled mess of his own choked tears and the painful exhales as his scarred lungs erupted into a blazing inferno. “Jesus Christ, I didn’t mean to—are you okay, sir?” _Not now. Please, dear God, not now_. Jason was not in any state to talk to anyone, least of all the men who only knew him as the Knight. He drew his knees upwards, trying to get up, only to be greeted by a searing sting in his thighs. “Jeff, get the first aid kit, now!” Someone was reaching for his shoulder, trying to steady him. He hid his face in the remains of the mask best as he could and pushed the hands away. His right hand curled around the grapnel gun automatically and aimed for the nearest ledge he could make out.

Behind the half-crumbled wall, past a mattress littered with dirty needles and empty cans of food, another heavy door burst under the weight of his muscle. He grappled up through the nearest manhole and right onto the next-best billboard, the sunny colors of which were telling him to get a tan in Santa Prisca. The last thing he wanted right now was light. He wanted someplace dark. Someplace secluded. Someplace empty. No Batman. No Scarecrow. No cops. No militia.

_ACE._

The factory was a toxic ruin by now. Nobody had any business being there anymore and there was a storage room in the supporting arch of the bridge leading to the factory that nobody would care about for at least another day. His feet started moving again, despite the constant string of pain from toe to hip. _Why the haste,_ the Arkham Knight asked with unveiled disgust. _You are just going to curl up in there to die, anyway. No reason to rush._

_Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!_

Jason bit down hard on his lower lip, but the pain barely registered. The taste of blood did though. A familiar, bitter taste. He landed on top of the bridge’s roof and was ready to shield his face from the oncoming impact with a glass window and a thin brick wall, only to find the room broken into already. Above the pallet jack, a host of green question marks adorned the wall. _Fuck you, Nigma_. He wanted to kill the son of a bitch, but judging from the lack of any trophy or riddle anywhere in the room and the state of the window, Bruce had been through here already. _Good._ That meant he would not have any reason to return. He pushed away what little debris had landed near the heavy iron doors and slumped down in the corner. The helmet came off smoothly enough, despite all the broken parts. He wondered why he even bothered to put it down by his side gently instead of throwing it against the farthest wall. As his arms curled around his drawn up knees and his head sank down to his plate-less chest, the tears came back with a vengeance.

It started quietly, softly, with a few drops of cold salt, but soon enough, every hitched breath sent fresh tremors through his body and a new burst of water out of his eyes. _Come home_ , Barbara’s voice echoed through his skull. _Don’t let Joker win_.

“I let him win.” Jason hardly recognized the sound of his own voice. If anyone had told him right then and there that this hoarse, barely identifiable croaking sound belonged to a twenty-year old man, he would have told them to go prank someone else. “I let him win, Barb. I let him win…”

 _You sure did, kiddo_ , Joker cooed in his brain as he rocked back forth to shut off the tremors. _Shame you didn’t have the guts to go all the way, though. Then again, you always were a disappointment_ , the Knight added. His mind returned to the Asylum, to the day that Joker had shown him the picture. Maybe his fear-gas-induced hallucination had been right. Maybe Bruce really had brought on the replacement only to speed up his search for Jason. Joker had painted a different picture. The picture of a whiny, constantly complaining street rat with too much brawn and too little brain, abandoned by a man who had never cared. The Knight had been quick to agree with him, eager to latch on to the anger, the hatred. By the time Joker had pushed the branding iron onto his cheek, anger and hate, had been the only thing keeping him alive. Long after he had forgotten the warmth of joy, comfort or hope, or the cold chill of pain and fear, the scorching red fury had kept him alive. It had fueled what little fire had been left inside of him. He had latched on to it like a drowning man to a tiny piece of driftwood. He had given in to the voice in the back of his head, the darker reaches of his mind that had been born sometime during his life on the street and that had nearly died in his time with Bruce.

“That’s what you are afraid of, isn’t it?” Jason asked wearily. The Knight would not answer. He knew that much by now. “You’re afraid that no one needs you and your hate.” It was quite possibly the only thing that both parts of his mind agreed on. The fear of being deemed useless, worthless, nothing. It had been part of him ever since the first time his biological father had beaten the crap out of him for flushing his mother’s drug stash down the toilet in a desperate attempt to get her off the devilish stuff that scrambled her brains so badly it sometimes even made her forget her son’s name. He had been five.

Every day after that had been a challenge, a battle of trying to prove that he was not useless. Some days he had brought home more money than either of his parents and yet it had never been enough. Neither of them had cared. Nobody had cared. When he had been lying bleeding and broken in an alley in the Coventry seven years later, nobody had cared either. He had dragged his ravaged body all the way to his closest hideout and not one of the dozens of people he had passed by had even looked at him, much less bothered to help him. When Bruce had taken him in sixteen months later, giving him free food and care and shelter, he had expected it all to be some kind of big scam. Or potentially a dream. His confused mind hadn’t been able to figure out which one would be worse. He had been lying in the ridiculously nice and comfortable bed of the ridiculously nice and comfortable room, terrified of closing his eyes for fear that he would wake up back in the dirt of the Coventry. That’s all he had been doing in his time at Wayne Manor. Waiting. Waiting for Bruce to lose his patience. Waiting for someone to call the bluff. Waiting for things to go wrong. Waiting for the sweet dream to end and the nightmare that was reality to start again.

Up until now, everything had made perfect sense. His memory returned to May 21st 2011, the day he had decided to go after Joker. He had broken the rules. Not just one rule. Rules. Plural. _Disabled the tracker. Went off on my own. Tried to kill someone_. Bruce wouldn’t have approved of any of those things, so when Joker had shown him the picture of Batman and his new Robin, it had made perfect sense in his brain. It had finally happened. Things had finally gone wrong. Bruce had lost his patience. The sweet dream was over and the nightmare had begun again. Bruce had weighed the effort of chasing after a failure against the potential hidden in a blank slate and had decided to start fresh. That was simply human nature. It was perfectly understandable. Logical. It made sense.

_It’s not too late._

What was it that had clung to those words Bruce had spoken to him? He tried to put a name to the thing that tasted so strange in his damaged soul. _Confidence?_ Confidence made sense. Bruce was nothing if not confident. And relentless. So that made sense. _What else?_ The words looped over and over in his head. He reached for the broken helmet and was grateful to find the recorder still intact. The sound came through the audio output all garbled and static and he had to crank it up to eleven to even hear it properly, but it wasn’t the first time he had dealt with crappy audio. In a strange way, it reminded him of countless hours spent listening to interview tapes during his Robin training, learning how to tell lies from truth, sincere expressions from veiled motives. Bruce’s voice being so strangely familiar did not make it any easier.

_It’s not too late._

It was not just confidence. Confident Bruce was much harsher, much more growling. There was something else. His answer had come too quickly. Bruce was a thinker as much a brawler. He weighed his options. Everything he ever said was carefully considered. _Take a deep breath and think before you speak and you will never have to regret a word you say_ , Alfred had told him once when he had lashed out at the butler. He didn’t even remember what for. It hadn’t mattered. Jason had backtracked immediately, going from fury like hell hath not to let-the-earth-swallow-me-whole mortified in a split second. Alfred had taken it with his usual brand of forgiving stoic and handed him this piece of sage advice over another cup of tea. He wondered now if Alfred had given Bruce the same advice once when he had been young, because Bruce had surely taken it to heart. He always thought before he spoke. _Except this time._ He hit the replay button once more. This had not been deliberate, professional Batman or even billionaire Bruce Wayne for that matter. This was not ‘think before you speak’.

_It’s not too late._

_Soft voice. Quick speech. Higher pitch than usual._ If this had been an interview tape, which words would he have used to describe that tone? “Emotional.” The word felt strange on his tongue. ‘Emotional’ was not a very common word in Bruce’s vocabulary. He tried to think back to the few times he had seen or heard him being emotional. The anniversary of the deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne. That time Dick had ended up in Blüdhaven General’s ICU thanks to a hail of stray bullets during a bank robbery in broad daylight when all he had been trying to do was cash his paycheck. That time Jason had nearly drowned on patrol because he had been hiding his utter lack of any swimming skills from Bruce for fear that he would kick him out over it. That time Bruce had promised him to never abandon him. Life and death. Nothing short of an existential crisis to make Bruce prove that he too had a heart of flesh. _What else?_

_It’s not too late._

There _was_ something else. He hit the ‘rewind’ and ‘replay’ buttons again and again until his finger started cramping up. _Emphasis on the ‘not’. It’s NOT too late_. There was a sense of urgency to the word that made it sound less like a negation and more like… like what? “Pleading.” That word sounded wrong even as it rolled off Jason’s tongue. Bruce never pleaded, never begged. He demanded. Sometimes, if he was being cooperative and generous, he suggested, but he never begged. “Suggesting.” That sounded slightly off, too. If it had been a suggestion, there would have been a change in pitch, a hint of a question carrying underneath the word, but there wasn’t. He wracked his brains to come up with the word that lay between ‘suggestion’ and ‘pleading’. What was that called again? That weird half-bred thing between confidence and despair?

_A wish._

“Hope.”

The word forced its way up his throat and out through his gritted teeth against the distant chill of the Asylum and the black slush of pain in his chest. _Hope._ How long had it been since he had had any hope? Hope for what? Hope that Bruce really cared? That his fears were unfounded and that it was not just a dream, an act, a lie? Hope was a frail little thing. Joker had shattered it with nothing more than a few pictures, an unhealthy dose of torture and a branding iron.

 _Fear isn't pure biology, Batman_ , Scarecrow’s voice was suddenly loud and clear in his mind. _It's more than instinct. True fear is the absence of hope_. For once, Scarecrow was right. True fear was the absence of hope. Jason knew that all too well. He had crossed that horizon a long time ago and he had come out on a tide of anger, hate and pain with the Knight at the helm. “Hope.” He replayed the sentence again and again. With every repeat, the word seemed to fit the tone better and better, more so than any other descriptor he could come up with.

_It’s not too late._

Not too late to leave Arkham and Joker behind. Not too late to stop this war that had nearly wrecked Gotham, but had ultimately led to defeat after defeat for the Knight. Not too late to lower the gun and come back home. Not too late to ditch the Arkham Knight and return to being Jason.

Jason had given up on that hope a long time ago. He had the scar on his cheek to prove it. He belonged to Joker. It was either Joker or death. The Arkham Knight had taken the burden of that choice from him. He had burned all bridges and rebuilt himself anew from ashes to escape death. It had been an escape into a hell of nightmares, pain and hate. And looking back on it now, it had been entirely the wrong choice.

“I should have done this a long time ago.” His fist curled around the gun calmly. The weight felt blissfully familiar in his hand. He had never felt the muzzle under his chin before, but it felt good, knowing that it would all be over soon. Bruce had proven that he was a one-man army capable of overcoming any challenge. By now, Barbara was surely safely back at GCPD. Deathstroke and Scarecrow were probably secure in the lock-up already and whatever watchtowers, road blocks and bombs had remained were certainly scrap by now. The Arkham Knight’s militia had failed spectacularly despite having every advantage that Jason could possibly have given them. Whichever way he looked at the situation, he really was useless. Jason was useless. The Arkham Knight was useless. If he could do the world one favor, it would be to remove himself from it and let someone who was actually worth anything, someone who would not screw things up, take his place. Let the new kid wear the Robin suit. He couldn’t be worse at it than Jason had been. His finger slid over the trigger slowly.

“Gallant police force of Gotham, I have a message for you.” Alright, perhaps there still was ONE person in this place that deserved this bullet more than he did. Scarecrow’s voice had been little more than a distant whisper from some billboard down the road, but the sound grated in his ears like nails on a chalkboard. He had had to listen to the mad psycho’s monologues for the better part of a year now. This was _not_ the last thing he wanted to hear on God’s green earth. “You are not safe. You are not protected. Batman will not save you. This is the beginning of the end for you, Dark Knight.”

“Oh crap.” His finger froze above the trigger. _The Defender Protocol_. He had completely forgotten about that. The Knight had been less than pleased to even come up with it, unwilling to accept the idea that things might go south and his men might end up rotting in a jail cell, but every good military operation needed at least one exit strategy and the Knight was a soldier after all. In his head, the numbers raced by quickly. Even if Bruce had taken out all drone units in the field, there would still be more than half a hundred units left to bomb GCPD into oblivion.

 _So let them_ , the Knight muttered. _Nothing of value will be lost._

 _Nothing but dozens of innocent cops whose only crime in all of this has been to try and clean up the mess I have created_ , Jason corrected. He dropped the gun and activated the trackers on his gauntlet instead. Compared to the real-time visual updates and direct network interface of his blue helmet, the gauntlets were woefully underpowered. On the bright side, his link to Bruce’s network was still active. He skimmed through the last hour of traffic and felt his heart sink. Someone was accessing the Batcomputer remotely from GCPD.

_Nothing of value will be lost._

Nothing but Oracle. Batgirl. _Barbara._ The woman who had been like a big sister to him for the best two-and-a-half years of his life. The woman who had still been trying to be a sister to him even after kidnapping her and nearly getting her gassed by a madman. The woman who had been trying so desperately to make him see the truth: that Bruce had truly cared and that, if he had been aware of Jason’s survival, he would have _hoped_ for him to come home. The truth that it was not Jason’s fear, but the Arkham Knight’s that was ultimately real – that the Arkham Knight, the hate and the pain were not all Jason had in life. The truth that he had a family, too. A family that had never stopped caring for him, never stopped mourning his loss.

“Alright, Jason, you pathetic loser.” He took a deep breath. “You can curl up and die later. Right now, there is a debt that needs to be paid.”

***

By the time he had retrieved one of his red back-up helmets from its hiding place in the underbelly of Merchant Bridge, Batman was on his way to the back-up generator for GCPD’s parking garage. He had been monitoring his communications with Barbara carefully. If there was one good thing coming of the militia trashing the Clock Tower servers, it was that his intrusion into the network had gone undetected. Jason had reached for the spare red helmet and the spare guns without hesitation, but had ditched the blue helmet in the bay. The Arkham Knight had already done enough damage.

The sensors came online immediately and as he grappled up onto Mercy Bridge he could see the flood of tanks moving onto the street in front of GCPD and unloading round after round. How that building was still standing was nothing short of a miracle. He would help that miracle along just a little. His fingers raced across the holographic interface, adding more details to Oracle’s previous analysis of the drone network. She had done good work so far, but at the very least he could save her a couple of minutes. And minutes was all this building would have as soon as they rolled out the Pythons.

“Head to the car and I’ll- What? No way!”

 _Eight seconds._ A smile curved Jason’s lips. Barbara was still as good as he remembered.

“What is it?” Bruce sounded positively annoyed. Jason couldn’t blame him.

“A vulnerability in the militia network.” Barbara explained, unable to suppress her amusement. “Idiots. I think I can hijack their drones!”

“You’d better, Barb. I don’t have the computing power here to do it myself.” Jason muttered perched on the bridge. As the countdown between Oracle and Batman started, Jason found himself whispering along. Five seconds to redemption part one. He crossed his fingers and watched as the Batmobile sprang forth from the parking garage, sending a flurry of missiles into the field of drones. “Ten down, fifty-two to go.” He watched with half a grin on his face as Barbara worked her magic, hacking, overloading and overheating drones all over the place. This was ACE Chemicals all over again. Deep inside, the Arkham Knight screamed in frustration.

“We’ve got a systems breach. Someone’s inside.” _Grant again_. The poor devil was about to watch the last batch of his drones go up in smoke.

“Remove them.”

“I can’t! As soon as I trace the source, it switches.”

“Barbara Gordon…”

So Scarecrow had worked it out. Good for him. It would not matter though. Between Barb’s brain, Jason’s intel and Bruce’s personal war machine, the battle had been over before it had begun. He watched the last Python drone shatter into thousands of little pieces. Grant sounded positively crushed. “There’s nothing left, sir. Nothing.”

 _Nothing of the drones at least_ , Jason thought glumly. This was all he had brought to Gotham in terms of tanks. There were still a few armored vehicles out there, but those wouldn’t stand a chance.

His trail of thought was interrupted by the loud noise of a chopper moving in on the roof and he grappled off into the shadows instinctively. The last thing he wanted to do right now was face any of his men. Besides, if Bruce had proven anything over the last ten hours, it was that he was able to wipe the floor with them all by himself just fine. He turned on the cowl vision of his helmet and watched in silence as each soldier ended up down and out for the count with a few cracked bones for good measure. From where he stood, they deserved it. If he had walked straight into those kicks and punches during his Robin training like his men had done just now, Bruce would never have let him hear the end of it. The reinforcements with the medics, ninjas and heavily armored lieutenants fared slightly better, but the final result was still the same. Part of him couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He had spent months training these guys and they had learned absolutely nothing. Another failure. His right hand curled around the gun once more. He really should do everyone the favor.

“Batman! There’s a lot of people in here looking to thank you, the both of you!” _Aaron Cash_. He had only met the man once when he had still been a guard at the Asylum. He had not been surprised when his recon visits to Gotham had revealed that he was now working for GCPD. “And I’m one of them. It looked bad for a minute there.”

“Thanks, Aaron, but you don’t need to… oh God.” Barbara’s voice had gone from charmed to alarmed in less than a second. Jason knew that sound. It wasn’t easy rattling Barbara, but when it happened, it never boded well for anyone. His fingers moved back from the gun to his helmet, adjusting the audio filters to clear up the sound.

“What is it?”

“I think Scarecrow’s at the movie studios.” _Oh crap_. How the hell had Crane found that place? Jason had never told him about it and neither had the Knight. At least as far as he remembered. “Dad’s voice was just used to gain access.” And since when did Gordon know about Panessa?

“Pull up a surveillance feed.” Batman suggested.

“I’ve tried.” Oracle’s voice had gone from alarmed to panicked. His confusion about what had brought on the change lasted for little more than a second. “And I can’t get a hold of Robin… He was in there, right?”

 _Robin. Tim Drake. The replacement_. The J on his cheek and the scar on his chest erupted into fresh, hot pain. Depending on just how many of the remaining half-hundred militia soldiers Scarecrow had brought along for the ride, the kid might well be dead by now. _Good_ , the Knight growled. _Let the pathetic loser rot_.

Jason found it hard to argue with that. Maybe Bruce had really missed Jason. Maybe he had really been hoping to get him back. Maybe he had not abandoned him. But he _had_ replaced him long before the gunshot, long before the film, and the thought made every scar in his body flare up once more. What was so special about that kid that Bruce had let him put on the suit while Robin was still out there?

 _Why don’t you go back and ask Bruce, now that you are best buddies again,_ the Knight growled _._ Jason bit down hard on his lip to tune him out. There was no way he could face Bruce. Not now. Not after all that had happened. His fingers found the gun once more. He really should do this.

“Looking for someone?” Scarecrow’s ugly face peered at him from one of the screens hanging off the monorail. This was twice the psychopath had stopped him from blowing his own brains out now. This was either another cruel joke or a divine hint with all the subtlety of a train wreck. For his part, Jason had given up hope in a benevolent creator a long time ago.

“You should know by now that nowhere is safe. The commissioner was so eager to betray you earlier, when his daughter’s life depended on it. And now, I have your Robin. The caged bird. Fascinating that your fears would drive you to lock your closest ally in a prison cell.”

 _Bruce did what?_ It took all of what little control he had left in his body to keep himself from toppling over and off his perch. Sure, Bruce had always been slightly paranoid. He had always made sure to go in first and come out last, to scoop out all potential dangers before sending in Robin. If there were multiple ongoing reports, he always made sure to take the crime scenes that looked like most trouble and if Robin was out in town on his own, he had always demanded frequent updates, even if they amounted to little more than ‘yes, I’m still alive and kicking’, but this… Why would he lock Robin up in the movie studios? In a cell for that matter. Disadvantaged. Cornered. _Trapped with a murdering psychopath._ The chill of Arkham crept through his bones once more, freezing him in place. His scarred lungs burned with every hitched breath as the memories, the nightmares wormed their way back into his conscious mind. When he closed his eyes against the pain, all he could see was a bleached face with a blood-red grin and a glowing, golden J.

“Now those same fears will make you do as I say.” Scarecrow’s voice was almost inaudible against the noise of Joker’s laughter and the sound of sizzling flesh. Jason clung to it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. As horrible and grating a sound as it was, it was the only thing that did not lead back to Joker. It was the only proof that this was just another panic attack, another flashback, not the real deal. _This is not real._ He repeated the words over and over, hushed whispers against incessant laughter. _This is not real. Joker’s dead. You’re not back in there. Scarecrow’s talking. This is not real._ “There’s a storage depot in Kingston.” _Kingston_ _. Miagani. Storage depot. I know that place. Right underneath Mercy Bridge._ “Go there, alone. Prepare to take off that mask. Or your friends will die.”

As Scarecrow’s voice faded, the laughter only got louder. He flipped his mask open and took a deep breath. It was raining again. There was no rain in the cell. All around him, the city lights shone brightly. There were no lights in the cell. Bruce had apologized. Bruce had hoped. Bruce had offered him forgiveness. Joker was dead. And now there was another boy, another Robin in the hands of another psychopath.

_We can fix this… together…_

“Let’s see if you really mean it, Bruce.” His left hand reached for the grapnel gun instinctively, aiming for the top of Mercy Bridge. As the wind rushed past him and the rain drops turned to little needles on his face, Bruce’s words repeated against the sheer infinite laughter. “Let’s see how much you really care about your sidekicks.”

***

The storage depot lay in front of him undisturbed and quiet. A truck was parked in the delivery entrance. He hacked into the camera feed, looping the last two minutes of footage to give himself some wriggle room and slipped through the open door. The text on the TV screens flashed by too quickly to read, but he doubted the content was of any importance. He had worked with Crane long enough to know that this was just another way he tried to disturb his test subjects. All around him, Scarecrow’s markings adorned the room. What was it with these psychos and plastering the walls with disturbing imagery? He planted a tracker on the wheel well of the back left tire and turned back to the table. “Alright then, world’s greatest detective. Let’s see if you can figure this one out.”

Beneath the TV screens, the paint cans were practically begging him to pick them up. He reached for the red, retrieved the knife from its pouch on his hip and went to work on the nearest piece of cardboard. The bat was simple. Angular. Certainly less likely to make him cut himself in this impromptu arts and crafts project than the normal, curvy designs Bruce was using. Jason had used this design before. As a matter of fact, it had been in the corner of every single design sketch he had ever handed in to Bruce or Lucius. It was time to see if Bruce had ever actually looked at any of them for real. He held the stencil to the outside wall right next to the door and went to work. The paint stuck to the wall well enough. He put the can and the brush in the pouch that had once held his flash bang grenades and grappled back into the shadows of the nearby buildings.

To his surprise, little more than ten minutes had passed since Scarecrow’s invitation when Bruce arrived at the depot. He watched through his cowl vision as Batman entered the depot and Scarecrow lapsed into another one of his tedious monologues. If Bruce was half as sick of it as Jason, Crane would be drinking through a straw for the next few months once this night was over.

“Leave your equipment on that table, and we can find out.”

 _Well, that certainly complicates things_. He couldn’t just leave a utility belt full of million dollar gadgets lying on some table on Miagani. The Arkham Knight had already done enough to spill Batman’s secrets. He waited for the truck to move and the tracker to connect to his gauntlets before grappling back in and retrieving the belt. This time, Jason didn’t bother to mess with the cameras. He doubted Scarecrow cared about anything but that truck right now. He followed the signal back across Mercy Bridge and onto Bleake Island, past Panessa Studios and onto Merchant Bridge. “Where the hell are you taking him, Crane? There are no militia safehouses outside of Central Go—“

_Oh God, please, no._

He nearly ended up grappling straight into the last support beam of Merchant Bridge. On his display, the tracker had made a right turn past the bridge, heading straight for Arkham Peninsula. The logical part of his brain knew that it made perfect sense. Scarecrow’s main office and lab was on Arkham, in the ruins of the Asylum. But logic had nothing to do with this. If there was one place he did not want to be tonight, it was Arkham. He’d rather have been back in the mall. He’d rather have been back in the manor.

 _What’s the matter, Jason?_ The Knight’s voice was dripping amusement. _Afraid of coming home?_

 _Shut up!_ The Asylum was not home. It never would be. Not to Jason. It had been home to the Arkham Knight, though. It was where an occasional whisper had grown into a full voice. A voice based on lies told by the Joker, fueled by fears of a boy who had never learned to trust. No good had ever come of the Arkham Knight’s hate.

 _It saved your LIFE_ , the Knight reminded him.

 _Proving my point for me_ , Jason retorted. His fingers curled around the grip of his gun once more. If it hadn’t been for him, Gotham would not be on the brink of destruction. If it hadn’t been for him, Batman would not be cornered like a rat. If it hadn’t been for him, Barbara and her father would not have been kidnapped. If it hadn’t been for him, there would not be another boy in a red suit in the hands of a psychopath right now. No good had come of Jason’s life. No good had come of the Arkham Knight. Short of Joker coming back from the grave, he could not think of anything worse to happen now than to let the Knight take charge of his life ever again. It was time to be done with this. It was time to be done with the Arkham Knight.

The shoulder guards were first. He would be damned if he was going to wear that stupid Arkham diamond on his suit any longer. He ripped them off and tossed them into the bay and felt as if a mountain had been lifted off his shoulders. The voice modulator was next. He deleted the software backup from his helmet and gauntlets and took a deep breath. “My name is Jason Todd.” He sounded older than he should have. Tired. Beaten. It was a fully pleasant change from the almost demonic, dark slur the blue helmet had put on him. That left the half-diamond on his suit. For the first time in hours, he was glad that Batman had relieved him off the chest plate. He thought back to the time he had first painted the diamond on, all in white. He had contemplated painting a bat instead, just to unnerve Bruce, but the Knight had taken it about as well as a kid would react to someone stealing his candy. _You don’t like bats, do you?_ He could feel his lips stretch wider with every single bit of rage radiating through his skull. This time, it was one of his utility pouches that had to go under the knife. He cut the symbol just big enough to fit on his chest and started painting. A minute later, the red bat stood proudly on his chest. He could feel the Knight recoil like a vampire from garlic. _Good._

For the first time in years, Jason felt like Jason again. Not Robin. Not the Arkham Knight. Jason Todd. It felt insanely good.

It was the tracker monitor in his helmet that pulled him out of his pathetic moment of triumph. The truck had come to a stop at Arkham Mansion, as expected. Jason rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. This was going to hurt in more ways than one, but it had to be done. He grappled through the forest of the peninsula onto the bridge leading to the Asylum and nearly ended up face to barrel with a sentry gun.

“Son of a bitch.” He had to give Scarecrow credit for having the foresight to set up a perimeter at least. He recognized the four lieutenants on patrol. Chapman. Richmond. De Souza. Patterson. He had picked some of the best, plus a total of twenty men to support them and sentry guns and Boas all over. Guns a-blazing would not cut it. He’d have to do this Bruce’s way. He was halfway through sneaking his way across the field when the sound of a distant gunshot ringing clear through the air took him back to a cold, damp cell and a mad clown. His right ankle twisted sharply and exploded into an inferno of pain as he missed his landing by half an inch and his shoulders screamed as he rolled over to brake his fall.

“We have contact! Open fire!” Chapman’s order was as clear as it was useless. The sentry guns had already turned on his position and were unloading round upon round on him, even as he ducked behind the nearest wall. From what he could see, the worst he had gotten was a few strafing shots to the leg. They would go nicely with the saw scars on his hips. He reached for the pouch with the flash bang grenades only to find nothing but a can of paint and a brush. “Great…” To his left, Patterson had made his way around the wall and was glaring at him, gun at the ready. The claw connected quickly with his uniform and pulled him right into a chokehold. As much as the Knight wanted him dead, Jason wanted him alive. These men had followed him into the hell that was Gotham. They were in this mess because of him. As he felt Patterson go limp in his arm, all Jason could do was mutter “I’m sorry.” He reached for the hacking program in his gauntlets and accessed the drone network, using the shortcuts only he knew existed to disable their friend or foe identification systems for good. The worst was over.

“Move in, move in!” Chapman again. He really didn’t want to fight these guys. It wasn’t going to go well for anyone involved, particularly without the flash bang grenades. It was one of the pouches of Batman’s belt poking against his hip bone that gave him the answer. If he was going to save Bruce’s ass, he doubted he would mind borrowing a smoke pellet. The little black ball felt strange in his hand and just the sight of it made him sick, but he pushed the memories down again. _Focus, Jason, you’re not going to eat the damn thing. You’re going to throw it._ He waited until the militia were almost upon him before unleashing a cloud of non-lethal chemicals upon his men. One by one, he brought them into chokeholds and knocked them out cold. By the time the cloud had lifted, it was only him and the now useless sentry guns bathing him in red light, but not firing a single shot. He brought up the vitals monitor of his helmet. No casualties. He wondered if Bruce would be a little proud of that at least.

_Bruce…_

Next to the entrance gate, someone had set up a TV. Apparently, even while on guard duty, his men did not want to miss this event. From the shiny screen Bruce’s steel blue eyes stared back at him under a thick patch of ruffled hair. _Hair. No cowl._ _Fuck_. It was too late.

_I could have been here so much sooner. I should have. But no, I had to deal with my own fucking psychosis first, didn’t I?_

“Wayne? Bruce Wayne?” Scarecrow sounded just about as shocked as everyone else in the world probably was by now. The news banner flashed red underneath the live footage. In the background, Vicki Vale sounded positively rattled for once. Crane on the other hand returned to his usual monologuing voice easily enough. “Now the world can see you for what you truly are. A legend laid bare. Powerless. Human. Afraid.”

Jason couldn’t help but cringe as the syringes slammed through the suit. He had had a taste of Scarecrow’s toxin as an aerosol. He did not want to know how much worse an injection would be. He watched in shock as Bruce’s body went limp. _Move, goddamn it!_ His feet wouldn’t budge. _Why now, of all times? Why now?_

 _Because you are weak and pathetic_ , the Knight growled, now barely a whisper once more. _You failed. Well, done._

On the TV in front of him, Bruce’s eyes opened again slowly, his lips curving into a grotesque smile. Jason felt his stomach curl into a knot. Bruce never smiled. Not like this. He had seen this smile before and the memory froze up what few fibers of muscle in his body had still been able to move. All around him, Joker’s laughter echoed off the walls.

“Do you know what happens now, Mr. Wayne? I’m not going to kill you… I’m going to set you free… Free to see the city you swore to defend tear itself apart. Free to see everyone you love hunted down and killed. Every scream, every death, vengeance for all the Batman has done.”

“Good.” The word crawled into his ears like a snake through dry grass. This could not be happening. It had only been a fear-gas-induced hallucination, right?

“What? Do you not understand? It is over.”

“Get ready for the encore!”

He recoiled against the nearest supply crate with every audio filter muted and his hands pushed tightly above the receivers as the laughter echoed off the TV and drilled right into his brain. The voice was Bruce. The laugh was not. He had heard that laugh before. He had been hearing it for every hour of the last four years of his life, waking or sleeping, and it sent every scar in his body howling once more. _Make it stop! Dear God, make it stop!_

 _Joker got to you,_ Bruce’s voice echoed somewhere in the more distant reaches of his mind. _I know what it’s like._

He had thought it a lie. A weak, pathetic attempt at feigning understanding, at talking him into lowering his gun. A mockery of everything he had suffered. As the dark, wheezing laughter bore into his mind, his soul, the realization finally dawned on him. Nothing Bruce had said to him in that mall had been a lie. Jason had simply not had all the information he had needed to piece the puzzle together. And the same was probably true for Bruce. Nothing Jason had said to him had been a lie, but then again, if Bruce had told him the truth, then what more had Bruce had to go on, except for that one video? The only liar in this tale of pain and hate and fear had been Joker and Joker was having the last laugh. Literally. And it was all Jason’s fault. He had let Joker turn him into the Knight and he had let the Knight take charge. Because he had been afraid. Because he had always been afraid. Afraid of shadows that only he could see, of rejection and abandonment where there was none. He had been strong enough to survive every horrible situation. He had been strong enough to survive four-hundred and forty-two days with the Joker. But he had never been strong enough to trust.

_It’s not too late. We can fix this… together._

From the TV screen, Bruce’s face stared back at him, once more stoic as ever. He was no longer laughing. The blue of his eyes pierced right through the muddied mess of black and grey in front of his eyes. Against his best judgment, Jason felt his hands slide away from the audio receivers until they hung limp by his side. He understood now. Why Bruce had always won. Why Bruce had been able to reach out that hand even after everything that had happened. Because at the end of the day, Bruce was strong enough to trust. To hope.

“Do you understand, Gotham?” Crane’s ugly face stepped in front of the camera, blocking the reassuring sight of Bruce’s blue eyes, void of any fear. It might as well have been Joker staring back at him from the screen. Joker. Scarecrow. They were all monsters and they all deserved to be put down. “You have no savior. No more hope… No – more – Batman.” This time, when Crane’s syringes slammed into the suit, Bruce barely even winced. “I’ve won.”

“No you haven’t”, Jason growled through gritted teeth as he drew both his pistols and locked them back into their sniper rifle configuration. “Tonight, you lose. And so will Joker.” For once, the nerve damage that sent pain radiating through his body did not make him shudder and tremble. The J on his cheek, his ankle and pretty much every scar on his body was on fire, but for once he could not care less. Maybe Bruce had been a lousy teacher. Maybe Jason had been a lousy student. Maybe both. But if there was one good thing coming of this night, it was that he had finally learned the most important lesson of his life: what fears controlled him, drove him and ultimately had nearly destroyed him, and what he needed to do to conquer them. Bruce had shown it to him so many times tonight. He had trusted the Knight not to shoot him in the face. He had trusted Barbara to help him save GCPD. He had trusted Gordon to remove the mask in exchange for Robin’s life. Every time he had trusted someone it had turned out stellar. Every time he hadn’t, it had been a disaster. Jason did not need Robin’s detective skills to see the pattern.

“I hope you really _do_ trust me, Bruce”, Jason muttered as he grappled up into the mansion, following the life sign indicators of his cowl. _Because I am trusting you to be you and not a mad clown_. _Because I am trusting you to be the man who truly, from the bottom of his heart, believed that a whiny street-brat with too much pent up anger, pain and fear was worth adopting and raising to be your Robin, your son._ “Because I am trusting you to be the truth.”

“Impossible!” Scarecrow was fuming with rage. Jason had not seen him that angry since the Cloudburst had been destroyed. He lined up the shot, his hands as calm as they would ever be, as Crane pulled his sidearm and pointed it straight at Bruce’s head. “Without fear, life is meaningless.”

 _No, Crane. Without fear, life is worth living_. His first instinct was to aim for the head, but everything about that suddenly felt wrong. _Trust Bruce, Jason. He will get him even if you don’t._

The first shot knocked the gun straight out of Scarecrow’s hand. He reloaded and aimed for the metal strap that restrained Bruce’s left wrist. Five seconds later, one of Bruce’s hands was around Scarecrow’s throat, the other leading the syringes full of fear gas straight into Crane’s own neck. Jason watched with a smile on his lips as the psychopath he had spent the last year supporting stumbled backwards in panic, flailing at things that were not there. Death would have been too quick for this bastard. As Gordon knocked him out with a well-aimed punch and Bruce walked over to cradle his fallen Robin, the smile slowly faded. Was this what it would have been like if Bruce had actually found him? Was this what would have happened if he had actually shouted out for Bruce that fateful night when he had finally escaped from the forgotten cell in the burnt out dirt of the old sanatorium, when he had hidden in a car while the Batmobile rolled up less than a hundred feet in front of him? That scenario had always seemed so ridiculously unlikely in his head, he had refused to believe it, but that had been the fear talking. The fear that it was all just a lie. The fear that he could not trust Bruce or any of them. Now, it was clear as daylight to him that this was how it would have been.

It was also clear what would happen next. And he was not ready for it. With a deep sigh, Jason disassembled the rifle once more and tucked the pistols away. As soon as Bruce was done securing Robin, he would be looking over to the ledge where the shots had come from. He would try to approach Jason. He would try to reason with him. He would try to talk. Jason had never been good at talking and right about now his mind felt as blank as an open canvas. He was not ready for this. Not yet. “I’m sorry, Bruce.” With one last glance at the abandoned cowl, Jason Todd grappled off into the night.


	15. Hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Scarecrow’s defeat, Jason sets out to conquer his demons for good and repair the damage he has caused. As it turns out, the thing that might be damaged the most is him. No damage done to a person ever fully heals. And yet, there is hope…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: PTSD, references to past torture and attempted self-harm, alcohol abuse, swearing. Rated XS for extra-sappy. Long text is long and full of heartwarming tearjerkers.  
> Side notes: Aka, what I *hope* happened after the end. Big thanks to all my wonderful reviewers: bunnyloverXIV, Chai_Muffin, VelkynKarma, i love you fic, jellyfishpat, Finnland, Cerusee and Anon. This one is for all of you.

The heavy iron shutters in front of the VIP entrance into Panessa studios stood before him unmoving despite the wind and the rain, practically mocking him. Jason took a deep sigh. Of course the damn doors were still locked. Scarecrow hadn’t busted them open. He had used Gordon’s voice print to get in and out as legitimately as anyone would. Still, he had not come so far just to let some stupid shutter keep him out. He brought up the network hacking program of his gauntlets, fully aware that this would take longer than it would take Barbara to notice the intrusion. He only hoped she would not hack into his gauntlet and open up a holo link in return. He couldn’t face her. Or Bruce. Or any of them. “Well, at the very least then she’d know it’s just me.”

“Analyzing voice pattern.” _Oh crap._ He frowned at the Batcomputer’s announcement. So much for sneaking into this place. He could practically hear the gears turning in the VI’s head. “Identification confirmed.”

To his surprise, the shutter opened without a hitch, leaving him staring dumbfounded at the doors to the elevator. “Are you for real?” After all this time, after knowing that the Joker had taken him, Bruce had not even bothered to disable his voice pattern access? That was beyond sloppy.

Or, as evidenced by the beeping of his gauntlets only halfway down the elevator shaft later, a trap. The holo extended from his gauntlet in bright scarlet, revealing Barbara’s slightly bruised face with Batman’s trademark scowl on it. Beneath the mask of annoyance, the concern was woefully evident in her eyes. “You know booby-trapping your voice print was the second thing Bruce had me do after your abduction?” Her voice was little more than a hushed whisper. Judging from her surroundings, she was still at GCPD. “Right after promising him to be extra-careful on patrol and not going after the bastard on my own.”

“Let me guess, he had you set it to ping him on his gauntlets, too?” Once more, Jason was eternally grateful for the mask. It was bad enough that he sounded like a beaten dog right now. He didn’t need her to see the shame on his face, too. To Barbara’s eternal credit, she chose not to try and talk sense into him again.

“The direct relay was fried when the militia trashed the Clock Tower servers, but you know I can’t keep this from him. I won’t. And even if I did, Alfred has access to the Batcomputer too, you know.” He bit his lips as the elevator came to a halt. Part of him wanted nothing more than to hit the buttons again and run from this place, but he had not gotten what he had come for yet. He needed to see, to know. Barbara finally acknowledged his silence with a deep sigh. “Alright, I get it. Bruce is currently busy with two new watchtowers that popped up on Bleake.” The last line of defense. The four contingency towers. Jason shook his head. Apparently, Deathstroke was determined to finish this even if he had to drag everyone to hell with him. “How much time do you need, Jason?”

“Barb… you do know how much damage I could do to the Batcomputer from here, right?”

That earned him one of Batgirl’s old heads-you-lose/tails-I-win grins. “I know that you _won’t_. My dad just called and told me the Arkham Knight saved Batman at the Asylum, but that wasn’t the Knight, was it?”

 _No._ That had not been the Knight. That had been Jason Todd. “Putting an awful lot of trust in me here, Barb.”

Even through the wavy lines of the holo, the concern was evident in her face as the smile faded from her lips. Concern. And compassion. “We’ve always trusted you, Jason. All of us. You’re family.” She shook her head and rubbed the oncoming fatigue out of her eyes. According to the clock on his helmet, it was almost five in the morning. Soon the sun would rise on Gotham. He wanted to be far away from Panessa by then. When Barbara finally spoke again, her voice was just as beaten as his. “How much time do you need?”

He pondered the question shortly. He had planned to take his time, to look through the files right here, right now, but that was clearly not an option anymore. He’d have to copy the data and move on. Perhaps it was for the better. He had had enough painful revelations for one night. “Ten minutes.” It was a very rough estimate. Depending on just how many files there were to copy, it might take much longer than that. “Tell Bruce there should be another watchtower near the militia HQ, if he’s in the mood for more curb-stomping. Four mini-gunners and two guys with optical deflection armor. His gadgets will be here by the Batcomputer. And Barb…” He watched her face lighten up once more, every fiber in her body straining against the weariness. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

He cut the link without waiting for her answer, set the timer on his gauntlet to nine minutes and finally stepped out of the elevator. Thankfully, Barbara did not insist on pinging him again.

At first glance, Panessa base looked just like it had all those years ago when he had last set foot in there. The Batcomputer still glowed in hideous blue. The containment chambers designed to hold Gotham’s most dangerous crazies still adorned half the circle in front of it. What was different now was the addition of two deceased bodies on the floor. He flipped on his cowl vision to discover two more dead bodies and one live prisoner in the cells to the right. Jason stepped forward, guns drawn, only to freeze at the first dead body. With his skin all bleached white and his hair poison green, Johnny Charisma was a dead ringer for Joker. What the hell had happened here?

“Well, if it ain’t Scarecrow’s bat freak for hire!” _Harley fucking Quinn._ This could not be happening. Jason felt his stomach curl into a knot. The last thing he needed now was someone who would recognize him no matter what mask he wore. From the containment cell closest to the computer, Joker’s sidekick glared at him as if he were the most boring thing in the world. “You’re too late for the party, buttercup. Scarecrow’s already got the bird brain.”

His hand rose automatically, aiming one barrel straight at her head. His arm hurt as the memory of the metal baseball bat breaking the bone came back to him, accompanied by a thousand needle punctures. Now would be the perfect opportunity to blast her brains out. Payback for all the paralytics and hallucinogens and whatever other crap she had supplied to Joker for his torture. The thought of the contents of her head painting the inside of her cell made him feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy inside _. She deserves it…_

 _She definitely does._ The Arkham Knight’s voice agreed from the depths he had cast it back into. _Go on, pull the trigger._

From inside the cell, Harley simply stared back at him. “Go on then. He already killed my Mr. J and my babies. At least I’ll get to see them all again.”

 _See, even Harley thinks you should do it_ , Joker cooed inside his brain against a background of laughter. _Pull the trigger, Todders! Happy family reunions for everyone!_

“No.” It was the only word she’d get out of him and he could only hope that she did not recall the sound of his voice. Judging from the vacant expression on her powdered face, she hadn’t. He was done dancing to Joker’s fiddle, catering to the Knight’s blind hatred, and he was certainly not going to give this fruitcake what she wanted. Besides, he did not have time for this. As his hand tucked the pistol back into the holster, the deep breath he hadn’t known he had been holding finally escaped his lungs.

On the screens of the Batcomputer, a blood cell analysis labeled ‘Joker infected 04 – sample 51’ turned slowly in the dark. He copied the entire folder it belonged to onto his gauntlet’s mini hard drive and went straight back to the main directory. The folder titled ‘Robin’ was where it had always had been, now containing three sub-directories. Tim. Richard. Jason.

The last time he had checked, about a month before Joker had captured him, there had been five sub-folders in his own folder – History, Off. Doc., Performance, Reports, Evidence, Designs – the first four of which had existed in similar form in Dick’s folder as well. All the data from before Bruce had adopted him, official documentation after he had adopted him, test results and all relevant crime-fighting material from his patrols. The designs held all the sketches he had ever submitted to Bruce or Lucius. They were, in a manner of speaking, his only lasting legacy as Robin. Now, a sixth folder had joined them.

MIA _._

 _Missing in action. Short. To the point. Completely void of any hint of emotion. Classic Bruce._ The naming didn’t surprise him. What did was the fact that the folder held two-hundred gigabytes worth of data. _There goes the storage on the MHD_ , Jason thought glumly as he copied the entire thing onto his gauntlet. His finger hovered over the folder once more before finally double-tapping to enter.

The sub-folders and files were labeled by months and weeks, each containing a mess of crime scene evidence and interrogation reports. Jason skimmed through the folders quickly. He recognized the Kindergarten, but the rest was all new to him. The longer he looked at it, the more it became clear to him that Bruce really had been searching everywhere but in the right place. It was equal parts painful and infuriating. The timer on his gauntlet went off with a ping, reminding him that half his time was up. He went to folder simply titled ‘2012-08-16’ and felt his fingers froze over the keyboard.

He had expected to find Joker’s video in there. He had not expected to find a folder with more than fifteen-hundred screenshots in it. Apparently, Bruce had taken the damn thing apart frame by frame. He added a jpg file of an aerial view of Arkham Asylum to the folder, marked the location of his prison with a bright red X and bit his lip hard before clicking ‘rename’.

_Mystery solved. J.T._

His next little message went through the encrypted network of his gauntlets that was reserved for emergency transmissions across the entire militia, and it was as simple as it was hopefully clear. _All safehouse and base locations compromised. Abort all operations. Initiate exfil protocol._ If his men had any gray matter left in their brains, they would do just that. Drop whatever they were doing and try to get the hell out of Gotham, final paycheck or not. His third message went to GCPD through a burner e-mail account just a minute later, with a map of all militia hideouts and safehouses attached. His gauntlet pinged him again, reminding him that there were only two minutes left. Once he had ditched Bruce’s belt beneath the dashboard of the Batcomputer, Jason gave one last glance at the cell that had Scarecrow’s insignia plastered on the door, laughing at Robin’s broken staff, and decided that this would be as good a place as any for one final message. He just hoped there was still enough paint left in the can.

***

If returning to Panessa had been torture, returning to Arkham was hell. Even as he approached the hallway that would eventually lead back to the cell, every single scar in his body flared up again. His ankle and shoulders were screaming bloody murder. The J on his cheek burned hot as the sun. His scarred lungs protested at the deep breath he took as he moved slowly along the tiled walls and floors. His bloody footprints were still there, going into the opposite direction, now more brown than red thanks to years of oxidization. Ivy’s plants were all over the place, adding more creepiness to a place that had enough of it already.

It had taken him a full month to work up the courage to come back here. A month he had spent restoring his old hideouts from the days he would run from the manor to at least somewhat habitable conditions during the night, and fighting off the nightmares, flashbacks and memories during the day. The first week had been the worst, with all the injuries sustained during All Hallow’s Eve adding more pain to the old scars and an already battered body, but he had pushed through it all and come out only slightly worse for wear. He had been down that road before. In a way it was like Santa Prisca all over again. Minus the sun and the funds from all the highly illegal stunts he had pulled during that time. Thankfully, dead thugs had wallets, too. As a child, he had spent his very first winter on the streets of Gotham half-starved and almost frozen to the point where half-rotten sandwiches in roach-infested trash cans looked like five star meals, and there was no way in hell he was going to go back to that.

Barbara had offered to help, contacting him through his gauntlets to let him know that she’d be more than happy to arrange an apartment for him, only a day after the news of Bruce’s ‘death’ had broken. A place to stay. Warm and safe. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve any of it and he had declined her offer as quickly as she had made it. When Barb had insisted that he was family and family needed to stick together, particularly in times like these, and that Dick and Lucius would agree with her if they knew that he was still alive, he had told her in very blunt and angry words that the moment she’d tell Dick and Lucius he was still alive would be the moment he’d throw the gauntlets in the bay and never talk to her or any of them ever again. She had argued that keeping his survival from what was left of the bat-family made her feel like a monster. He had argued that he was not ready to face either of them yet and that, if she knew how many hours a day he spent staring down the barrel of his gun, she would not even consider suggesting it. He wished it had been empty threats and lies, but it was not. Every time he felt like he was even remotely ready to contact either Lucius or Dick, all he had been able to think about was the news coverage about how Wayne Enterprises was now under constant bombardments with law suits and inquiries, leaving Lucius to sort out the mess created by Batman’s unmasking, and how Penguin had now shifted almost all of his business from Gotham to Blüdhaven, leaving Nightwing to deal with what had once been an entirely Gotham problem. It was all his fault and he had no idea how to even start explaining it to either of them. Not now. Not yet. It had been hard enough facing Barbara and Bruce. Thankfully, Barb had eventually relented, though not before reminding him that he would not be able to run from his fears forever.

She was right, of course. She always had been. And so, after a month of procrastination, interrupted by semi-regular panic attacks, he had finally worked up the nerve to return to where it had all begun. Arkham Asylum.

“God, I hate this place…”

The trap door was already open, though whether that was from when he had escaped or whether Bruce or any of the others had actually come here within the last month, he did not know. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he did not care either. Tonight would be the night it would finally end. Tonight would be the night that he would tear this place down. With every step he took down the stairs, the air seemed to get colder and heavier, the laughter in his head growing louder and more grating. _Focus, Jason. Joker is dead. You can do this._

The room looked just like it had when he had left it, plus a few years worth of dirt. As the pale circle of his flash light hovered over the blood-covered floor and the walls with the newspaper clippings, all the memories came back with a vengeance. Four-hundred and forty-two days. It was time to send it all to hell and the sooner the better. Every second in this room was a struggle against his own mind, his memories. He attached the explosives to all four walls of the room with trembling hands, before retrieving the bullet from underneath his shirt and putting it back on the silver platter where it had lain when he had woken up. He wanted no more part of this room. From the mirror on the ceiling, his own red hood stared back him, a perfectly faceless mask, and yet he could see the J on his cheek clear as daylight. He knew now what the helmet had reminded him off when he had first built it.

Red Hood.

It had been one of Joker’s earliest aliases. Back before Joker had been Joker. Since then, dozens of people had claimed the title for themselves. He wondered whether it would make Joker at least a little mad, knowing that someone was now running around using his old alias to try and protect Gotham instead of burning it to the ground. Given that Joker had wanted Robin to be _his_ sidekick, he hoped it would.

The idea had come to him when he had been walking through Gotham as it slowly recovered from All Hallow’s Eve. People were slowly moving back into the city. Not all of them by a long shot, but many had returned, and yet the city definitely had a different feel about it. Gotham had always been a hellhole of crime and corruption, brightened by tales of its Dark Knight protector and savior, but now those same reports had changed, constantly revolving around the same topic: the potential suspects in the murder of Bruce Wayne, aka Batman.

“Bunch of idiots.” Bruce was not dead. The manor was his fort, his base of operations, stacked to the brim with non-lethal defense measures. There was no way anyone would have been able to set foot in there without Bruce knowing, much less plant a bomb big enough to reduce the manor and the cave to rubble. No. Bruce was not dead. Bruce was out there somewhere, recovering from the night that had cost him the cowl, almost certainly coming up with a plan for his eventual return to Gotham. _Batman never gives up, never retreats and never abandons his city._ All he needed was a new suit and a new name and he’d be back in business. If Jason had done it, then Bruce certainly could.

Batman was gone, but Bruce would return. It wasn’t a question of ‘if’. It was a question of ‘when’. Until then, someone had to keep this city safe and after everything that he had put Gotham through on his misguided quest for vengeance, if was only fair that he’d be the one to do it. He doubted Bruce would approve of the killing, but Jason found that he simply could not care. Batman had given every crook in this city more than enough chances to see the error of their ways and repent. If they hadn’t gotten the message by now, they never would, and he was done waiting for more psychos to play more sick games with innocent people. He would protect Gotham at any cost. It’s what he owed his city, his home. He would not let Joker win.

By the time he was back on the surface, his hands had gone cold as ice from the chill of the cell creeping back into his bones. He gave one last glance at the spot where he had stepped to freedom over a clown-faced corpse and felt the ground rumble beneath his feet as his finger pushed down on the detonator. He had put enough C4 in there to blow the room up three times. He would not be surprised if the rest of the building would come toppling down soon. He grappled back onto the bridge leading back to the mainland, activated the one-minute countdown on the self-destruct of his gauntlets and tossed them into the bay. They had been built by the Arkham Knight to serve the Knight and his militia. Red Hood had no need for them and neither did Jason.

From the ashen sky, the first snow flakes of a very late winter gently glided down onto the bridge. _Let them bury the Knight and Joker where they belong_ , Jason thought as he grappled back to Bleake Island.

_Forgotten, in the dirt._

***

By the time January had ended, Gotham was buried under a soft coat of white. All in all, it had been a rather mild winter for New Jersey, with the exception of one week-long blizzard that had nearly claimed his life. For now, the thermo-fleece under his bulletproof shirt and his dark gray pants kept out the chill well enough and yet he could feel every hair on his body stand up as he grappled into the tree line near the empty, burnt patch of earth that had once been Wayne Manor. It felt strange coming back here, particularly just before sunset. It felt even stranger seeing it all flat and empty.

He watched silently as the replacement helped Barbara out of the car he had driven up to the former main gate of the manor. Even now, after all these months, seeing her in the wheel chair still made him cringe. Sometimes he wondered whether that was his fault, too. Whether he could have prevented this had he not gotten himself captured. For her part, Barbara seemed completely unfazed by her injuries, planting a quick kiss on her newly-wed husband before making straight for a tiny path leading from the back of the manor through the tree line. Jason followed her quietly, but only grappled down once they were well into the bushes.

“You know, you could have said hello at least.” Barbara grinned at him from her bright pink chair. Underneath the red mask, Jason’s brow furrowed into a scowl.

“Trust me, there’s nothing I have to say to him that either one of you would like to hear.”

“I also remember saying something about showing up in civvies.”

Jason snorted at that. Truth was, everything he owned fit into one backpack and the last thing he wanted was to walk around in broad daylight unarmed with his face bared. He would be damned if he would tell Barbara about any of it. He’d only make her feel bad about not supporting him enough. Again. He hated being a burden on her. “So, where are we going anyway?” The path they were going down was not one he remembered taking before. As far as he could recall, there were several little tracks leading through the forests surrounding the manor. He had run them often for exercise. None of them had been covered in smooth wooden boards like this one.

As if she had read his mind, Barbara looked up at him once more. “Bruce had the boards installed after my injury. To make sure I could go there any time I wanted without having someone carry me.”

That made sense, though it still did not explain where ‘there’ actually was. By his reckoning, they were at least half a mile into the forest by now. As they reached the end of the path, the thick foliage cleared ever so slightly, revealing a tiny little grove hidden in the trees. If it hadn’t been for the boards, no one would ever have been able to find this place. Barbara stopped right in the middle of it, her face taking on that trademark bat scowl.

“Damn, the snow is covering it all up.”

He looked around and noticed the small mount protruding near the end of the boards. “Over there?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was suddenly quieter, sadder than he had ever heard. “Right there.”

He moved forward slowly. Crouching down in the cold snow made his ankle hurt ever so slightly again, a phantom pain that still haunted him and probably would for the rest of his life. As his hands brushed the snow away carefully, the small half-circle underneath took shape slowly. By the time he got to the lettering, his body froze over completely.

_Jason Peter Todd_

_1995-08-16 ~ 2012-08-16_

_Friend & Ally ~ Brother & Son_

“Goddamn it….” he had expected many things, but this was not on the list. His eyes scanned the site carefully. White marble. Golden lettering. Red, weather-proof candles. There was no doubt. This was his grave.

“Bruce set it up all by himself. Wouldn’t let any of us help him,” Barbara explained as she rolled up beside him. “White for the innocent life that was lost. Gold for how precious that life had been. Red because… well, if you ever had a color, it was red.” All of a sudden, she sounded so much smaller, weaker than Jason had ever heard. That, perhaps, was even more disturbing than the thought that he was essentially standing in front of his own grave. “We didn’t have a body to bury and we certainly couldn’t take that video down to the courthouse to have you declared legally dead, but Bruce wanted a place where we could go and mourn in peace. Nobody outside of the family knows about this place. Bruce came here every year on your birthday to put down fresh candles and flowers and every time he did it broke him over and over again.” Even now, Jason had a hard time picturing Bruce broken and crying, but the unshed tears in Barbara’s eyes as she looked up at him proved that it was the truth. A frightening truth, but he had learned to face his fears. He thought. “He never stopped looking for you right until the day we got the video.” Barbara finally explained. “And he never stopped mourning after that.”

“I know.” He could hardly believe that those words were coming out of his mouth, but he _did_ know. He had spent a good chunk of December looking at all the files he had pulled from the Batcomputer. The first batch had explained why Bruce had been laughing like Joker. The second had explained why Bruce had truly believed him dead. Why he had not abandoned him. Why everything Joker and the Knight had tried to make him believe had been a lie. Bruce had taken apart every single crime scene he had investigated, every testimony he had gotten from every hospitalized, clown-faced thug. He had taken it apart piece by piece, searching, probing for a trace, a hint at least, but Joker had been very careful in covering his tracks. The video and its screenshots had been the worst. It had taken him eight attempts before he had finally been able to force his way through the entire thing in one sitting and even then it had made him lose his lunch.

“Hey, what the hell is going on here?”

 _Dick?_ That couldn’t possibly be Dick. Dick never sounded that angry. Jason felt his muscles tense in anticipation as he got ready to punch whoever had dared interrupt this into the face. To his surprise, it really was Richard Grayson scowling at him from the other side of the grove. Clad in a long black winter coat that would not have looked out of place in _The Godfather_ , the bright azure of his eyes looked downright intimidating.

“What’s the Red Hood doing here, Barb? I thought we had agreed to keep this place in the family.”

She hadn’t told him then. Part of him was eternally grateful. The other part knew that that would make the next few minutes only more painful. Barbara looked up at him with soft blue eyes and reached for his trembling hand gently. He might have known that she had not just called him here to remind him that he was considered dead by the rest of the family. His hands moved to the release mechanism of his hood as if in a trance, as he steeled himself for the imminent chaos. The cold winter air stung sharply against the J in his cheek as he pulled the helmet off and tucked it under his right arm. He hoped that what he was about to say was still true from Dick’s view point. “It is still in the family.”

“Jason?!” For once, wise-cracking, never-lost-for-words Richard Grayson was staring at him with his jaw wide open, his eyes frozen in shock. If he hadn’t been standing in front of his own grave, Jason would have laughed. In his head, a dozen potential scenarios flashed by in a second. Surely Dick would believe this to be a sick joke. Or he would get the scolding of his life for not actually being dead. Or he would wake up back in the Coventry. Something like that.

“Oh God, Jason!” The hug came so swift and sudden it nearly made him tumble back into his own headstone. Dick’s arms were wrapped tightly around him, his hands digging into the jacket painfully close to the spot where the crowbar had nearly crippled him. His head was resting against the curve of Jason’s neck, black hair brushing against the ugly brand. “Oh God, you’re alive! Thank God you’re alive! I can’t believe it. I must be dreaming. Someone please pinch me.”

“I’m going to _punch_ you if you don’t let go _now,_ ” Jason growled through gritted teeth. It had come out a lot angrier than he had meant. He felt Dick laugh against his shoulder even as he slowly backed off. His hands were still on Jason’s shoulders though, as if he was afraid that he would disappear into thin air if he let go completely. Jason could hardly blame him. Disappearing sounded like a very good idea right now. As his older brother mustered him from head to toe, the shock and relief in his face gave way to a brand of misery and sadness he had never thought he’d ever see in Mr. Sunshine.

“I am so sorry, Jason.” Dick’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “I am so sorry we never found you. Where were you? Where have you been all this time? What’s happened to you, Jaybird?”

 _Jaybird…_ Jason hadn’t heard that nickname in ages. He had never quite been able to decide whether he hated or loved it. Right now, it was the least of his worries, though. _Where were you? Where have you been all this time? What’s happened to you?_ Where was he even supposed to start? _I escaped from the Joker, built an army, nearly destroyed Gotham, nearly killed Bruce and have been living on the street shooting criminals to pieces ever since? Yeah, that’s gonna go over real smooth._ He turned his head to the side trying to hide his marred cheek best as he could. He wanted to be anywhere but here right now. Dick was going to hate him.

“You know what, never mind.” To his surprise, Dick’s arms were around him once more, only this time one of his hands had gone into Jason’s hair, pushing his chin against Dick’s shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all I need to know. Dear God, you’re alive!”

“You wouldn’t be so happy about it if you knew what I have done.” Jason muttered, despite his best judgment. As ridiculous as all this hugging was, it felt nice and warm. It felt like something he had known and lost a long time ago.

“Jason was the Arkham Knight,” Barbara stated matter-of-factly and Jason found himself glaring at her like a puppy that had just been thrown in a bath tub.

“Seriously?” Dick nearly let go of him once more, his eyes now glaring directly at Jason’s. “You were the Arkham Knight? You were the one who tried to take over Gotham and kill Bruce?”

“Yes.” It came out as barely more than a whisper, but it was all he could think of. “You may go ahead and beat the ever-living daylights out of me now.” He didn’t deserve any better. The sooner they would get this over with, the better.

“Are you kidding me?” The sadness was back in Dick’s face, but his grip on Jason’s shoulders only intensified. “Jason…” He watched in quiet dread as Dick took a deep breath and shook his head before looking him straight in the eye again. “Jason, you are my brother. Do I condone what you did? No? But you spent _fifteen months_ in Joker’s hands and God only knows what that did to your brain. Fifteen. Months.” He swallowed hard. “We failed you, Jason. We all did. And whatever Joker turned you into – it’s partially our fault as well. I don’t know what to say or do about last Halloween, but you are my brother. You will always be my brother. And brothers don’t brutalize each other. They help each other.” Another deep breath and suddenly that all-too-familiar trademark Grayson grin was back on his face. “I’d say the only time I’d kick the crap out of you would be in a friendly fight, but then again you _are_ still holding the record in that insane infinite assault AR challenge Bruce sat up, so I’m not sure if that would be a good idea.”

That stumped him. There should have been a thousand things he should have said now. Like ‘thank you for not hating me’. Or ‘I’m sorry for what I did’. Instead, what forced its way out of Jason’s mouth was “you mean the replacement didn’t beat me in that one?”

That made Dick laugh. Next to him, Barbara glared up at Jason with unveiled anger. “ _The replacement_ is called ‘Tim’ and no, he did not beat you in that challenge. Or in any of the combat challenges for that matter. Dick may be the fastest and Tim may be the smartest in the family, but you were always the heavy hitter. We were just waiting for you to beat out Bruce.”

Dick nodded in agreement. Jason looked back and forth between the two of them like a cornered rat. This had to be a dream. Surely he was going to wake up any second now.

It was the sound of Barbara’s phone going off that ripped all three of them out of the magic of the moment. He watched as her face twisted into a frown. “Thirty minutes. We’d better get going, or we’ll be late.”

“Late for what?” Jason’s question was met with incredulous silence by Dick and a short wince from Barbara.

“You haven’t told him?”

“I _wanted_ to take it one shock at a time,” Barbara explained calmly. “I really did, but you have no idea how hard it is to get a hold of him at the best of times and Lucius kind of forced my hand with this.”

“Yeah, but Barb—“

“Alright, time-out.” He stepped between the two of them before the conversational continuity lockout would set in for good. Part of him wanted nothing more than to bolt. The other part wanted some freaking clarity. “Will someone explain to me what the hell is going on?” Both Dick and Barbara looked at him as if they were ready to receive the beating of their lives. It was Dick who eventually took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye.

“Lucius called a meeting at Wayne Tower to present Bruce’s will. Bruce’s instructions specifically requested that Barb and _all_ of his sons be there.”

“So what?” Jason tried to convince himself that he hardly cared. Bruce had believed him dead right up until the night he faked his own death. “So you and Barb and the replacement – Tim – go and enjoy your big paychecks. Congratulations.” He tried to sound casual, but really he just wanted to shoot something. Or better yet, punch someone. Then again, he had no one to blame for this but himself. None of this would be an issue, if he had not run from Bruce back then. Or even better, if he had never disabled the stupid tracker all those years ago.

“That’s the thing, though…” Dick’s voice was eerily somber once more. Jason hated it when he did that. It never boded well. “He didn’t ask for Barb, Tim and me. He asked for Barb and _all of his sons_. And the last update to the will was on November 1 st.”

***

_I should not be doing this. I should not be doing this. I should not be doing this._

He shifted his weight onto his left foot to alleviate the fresh pain in his right ankle. His red hood was drawn forward as much as possible, but he knew it would not be enough to hide the J. Having Barb force him to ditch his guns and helmet before entering the building had not helped. To his left, Barbara smiled at him reassuringly. To his right, Dick was whistling along to the elevator music, thumping his foot against the ground to the rhythm. On the other side of the elevator, the replacement leaned against the wall, trying to look anywhere but in Jason’s general direction. Trapped. He felt trapped. Unarmed and in enemy territory.

 _I should have just left when I had the chance_ , Jason thought as the knot in his stomach curled ever tighter. The elevator stopped at the top floor with a loud ‘ding’, opening up to the small reception in front of Lucius’ office. His assistant was not there, thank God. Still, this was bad enough. He had barely survived his reunion with Dick. He didn’t want to face Lucius. Or Bruce for that matter, even if it was just on a damn video.

The replacement and Barb got out first, but Dick did not move an inch. Jason scowled at him from underneath the hood. “What are you waiting for, Dickie? Get out.”

“And leave you to bolt?” That had been the plan. Dick seemed to have read his mind. “Jaybird, you are as transparent as a pane of plexiglas. Come on. We’ll do this together, okay?”

 _Together._ The word made the prospect of getting out of the elevator seem slightly less terrifying, but only slightly. Still, if Dick and Barb had found it in their heart to forgive him… He took a deep sigh and forced his feet forward one step at a time. True to his word, Dick was right beside him, waiting patiently as he slowly made his way into the office. Dick never did anything patiently. It was surreal beyond compare.

“Ah, Mr. Grayson!” Lucius’ voice was warm as ever. At last, Dick stepped forward, greeting Wayne Enterprises’ CEO by gripping his arm firmly and drawing him in for a short hug. To this day, Jason had no idea how Dick always knew just how to behave in front of and with everyone. He watched in silent trepidation, with his trembling hands tucked into the side of his hood as Dick stepped aside. Lucius’ shock was palpable, almost a physical thing. “Jason?”

He looked up slowly, fully prepared to bolt for the elevator if necessary. _Face your fears, Jason. Remember what happened last time you gave in to fear?_ The J stung fresh and angry on his cheek. “Lucius…”

“My God, Jason…” The old fox pulled him into the same gesture he had exchanged with Dick without hesitation. Jason reacted instinctively, crudely mimicking his brother’s behavior. It felt alien and weird. Like trying to wear a shoe that was two sizes too big. He waited for Lucius to pull back and start the endless string of questions that Jason wasn’t ready for. Once in a day was enough, thank you very much. Thankfully, everyone else had gone to settling in at the bar. “I thought you were—” He watched Lucius swallow hard, the pain clear in his face. “How did you—”

“Please don’t, Lucius. Please…” He had intended it to be a firm request, but if anything at all it reminded him of a room with tiles all over the wall and hooks hanging from the ceiling. He was not ready for this. _Not again. Please, not again_.

“Of course. A time and a place.” Lucius’ hand was on his shoulder now, a reassuring smile on his lips. “We can talk later. For now… welcome back. I’m glad you came here.”

 _Dodged a bullet._ That was exactly how it felt. He followed Lucius into the office slowly, each step a fight against the urge to run.

He had always hated this room. It looked too neat, too clean, too bright, and most importantly it was nothing but a cover-up. Everyone who truly knew Bruce for the man he was knew that Bruce Wayne was the mask and Batman was the real person. Jason had never been good at pretending and he had no idea how Bruce had been able to keep up the charade for a dozen years. Judging from the half-empty glasses in front of the others and the sour looks on their faces, he was not the only one who did not want to be here today. It made him feel just a little better. With a deep sigh, Jason slumped down by the bar, reached for the nearest bottle and downed his first glass in one shot. He raised his eyebrows at the taste. _Santa Priscan rum. Of course._ Next to him, Dick’s lips curved into a smile. “You know you’re the only one in here who’s not yet legally old enough to drink, right, Jaybird?”

“Barking up the wrong tree, Dickie,” Jason replied as he filled his glass once more. “If you had any idea how many times I’ve tried to drown my nightmares, you’d probably have me lined up for the next AA meeting by tomorrow.” That got him another crushed and stunned look. Thankfully, Lucius had just finished turning the PC’s monitor to face the crowd and loading the relevant files.

“Is everyone ready?”

Barbara frowned. “Are video wills even legal? I always thought a will needs to be in writing.”

“It does, yes,” Lucius patted the perfectly inconspicuous, brown folder next to the screen. “This is the pen-and-paper version. New Jersey law allows for holographic, that is unwitnessed but entirely handwritten, wills, which is what Mr. Wayne eventually decided on. He did leave a note however, asking me to execute the will only after the worst of the media storm had died and to present this video only to us.”

“I’m guessing the written version will be perfectly non-incriminating then and this will be the ‘Batman’ version,” Dick muttered over his own, barely touched glass of Cognac. “Let’s get it over with then.”

Barb and the replacement nodded in agreement. With a few clicks, Lucius brought the video to life. From the previously shiny blue screen, Bruce’s face peered at them. The video cut off just below the top of the shoulders, but he was still in the suit. Jason could tell. Judging by the fatigue that was evident in his features, this had quite possibly been the last thing he had done before blowing up the manor. Jason downed another glass and tried to shrink back against the bar as best as he could.

“Welcome.” Bruce sounded tired, too. And lost for words. The last time Jason had seen Bruce like that, he had been putting a gun in the man’s face. “If you are watching this, then I am gone. A shorter, holographic, legally binding version of this will exists as well, but all of you deserve better than a piece of paper.”

As much as he liked to agree with that statement, Jason would have preferred a piece of paper right now. That one he could have brooded over by himself in the darkness of one of his hideouts and he would not have had to look Bruce in the eye.

“First of all, Lucius. Thank you for agreeing to be my executor. You have been a loyal friend and irreplaceable ally for many years and I can safely say that Wayne Enterprises would be nowhere near as great as it is today without you. As a consequence, the company and all its subsidiaries, assets and holdings shall be yours only. I trust that you will continue to lead this company into a promising future and hope that you will continue supporting my family to the best of your ability.”

 _My family…_ Those were words he had never ever expected to hear out of Bruce’s mouth. Apparently, the prospect of imminent ‘death’ could get even the most stone-faced of men emotional.

“There is one notable exception to this,” Bruce continued. “Barbara.” He watched Barb shift in her seat, ever alert and ready to take on whatever came next. He had missed her confidence. “It has been ten years now since we first met and I am grateful for every day of our friendship ever since. I am deeply sorry for all the pain that has come to you as a result of it. The Clock Tower is your home and it should never belong to anyone else. I know you will make good use of it and hope that it will be a safe haven for you in the future.”

“Not bloody likely…” Jason muttered through his clenched teeth. He had given that one away practically for free. Any crook in the city with half a brain knew that there was something up in that tower by now.

Barbara grinned at him from her chair. “Oh, that’s right. You haven’t seen what I’ve done to the place since you last went there…” He was about to ask what exactly she meant by that, glad to have a subject other than ‘dead’ Bruce to focus on, but the video moved on.

“As for my private assets, Wanye Manor and everything in it is to go to my loyal friend, Alfred, who has been living in it and caring for it for longer than I can remember. I could not imagine it without him.”

For a few moments, silence hung heavily across the room. Everyone else seemed about ready to break into tears, but Jason only poured and downed another glass. Bruce had not addressed Alfred directly. _Because he knew he would not be here_. This had been deliberate, planned out in every detail. He watched Dick practically jump from his seat to hit the pause button. “So, what’s gonna happen with that then? I mean, the manor’s gone and so is Alfred.”

“There is still a lot of real estate,” Lucius explained patiently, his voice once more carrying that soothing undertone it usually had when someone had gotten upset. Jason had missed that warmth. “The lawyers will probably have a field day with it, but ultimately it will likely be split between all legal heirs.”

“Are you kidding?” The replacement was definitely pissed off. “It’s the Wayne estate, not the Grayson, Todd and Drake plots.”

“Tim—“

“No Barb.” He shook his head firmly. “It’s just wrong. Carving it up like some piece of cake. It feels wrong.”

“You’re welcome to the entire cake, replacement.” Jason bit his lip before downing another glass. Five down and still not even the slightest tingling in his finger tips. _Damn it all to hell._ This was going to get ugly.

“Same here,” Dick agreed. “Blüdhaven is my home now. Besides… I can’t go back there. Too many memories.”

He watched the replacement take a deep sigh, then sink back into his chair. Lucius didn’t hesitate to push the play button. The sooner they moved on from this mine field, the better. On the screen, Bruce’s face twitched ever so slightly as he steeled himself for what was to come.

“Finally, all my remaining assets, be they financial, material or otherwise, are to be split between my three adopted sons: Richard John Grayson, Jason Peter Todd and Timothy Jackson Drake.” During the pause that followed, Bruce’s face went from stoic, to pained, to lost-for-words, back to the blank canvas that was Bruce Wayne. The friendly smiles and vibrant gestures were for the camera, the media. This cold lack of expression was the real Bruce. The one that did not pretend.

“Dick.” Jason could practically feel his older brother bristle and tense in his seat. There was something different about Bruce’s voice now. A definitive, slightly emotional edge that all but screamed final words and goodbye. This was going to be painful for everyone involved. “You brought more joy and light to the manor and my life than I will ever be able to thank you for. I know we did not part on the best of terms and for that I am truly sorry. I am proud of the man you have become. Blüdhaven is lucky to have you and I know you will keep it safe. Please look after your younger brothers. They both need you more than either one of them would ever admit.”

Next to Barbara, the replacement shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Perhaps they had a thing or two in common after all. Besides getting captured by crazy criminals. The mere idea was weird and unsettling. He needed another drink, but the bottle was woefully empty.

“Tim.” _One down, two to go_. “I will never understand what possessed you to ask for this life, but I am glad that you did. I trust that you will take good care of both Gotham and Barbara, just as you took care of me when I needed it the most and wanted it the least. You have a talent for bringing reason and balance where there is none. Use it wisely.”

Another long pause. Another moment of closed eyes and deep breaths. This truly was the real Bruce. Think-before-you-act-Bruce. “Last, but not least, Jason…”

 _No, no, no, please don’t._ He recoiled on his stool and wanted to be anywhere but here. He could feel his knuckles whiten and the burn scars on his palms sear as he latched onto the edges of his seat. This could only end badly. Next to him, Dick was on full alert, ready to catch him should he try to bolt. Jason closed his eyes against the oncoming storm. _Rip me to pieces, Bruce. I deserve it._

“I know I failed you Jason, in more ways than one, and I will never be able to undo those mistakes. But I want you to know this: I never once regretted making you part of my family and I never will. Life dealt you all the wrong cards. I understand now that even the days I thought were good on you were really a struggle for survival. You deserved much better and I hope that you will manage to find a life in peace, free from all the pain and fear that was put in your path. Just remember this: you are not alone, Jason. You have two brothers, and Barbara and Lucius. It’s not too late. You can do this. Together.”

 _It’s not too late…_ There it was again. He wished he knew where Bruce took this trust, this faith, this bottomless optimism from. Jason swallowed hard. He had a hard enough time just sitting here, surrounded by people who had every reason to hate him, trying to remember how to breathe. To his left, Dick’s warm hand slowly slid over his cold knuckles, prying open his vice-like grip on the seat, but it was the sound of Bruce’s voice that pulled him back out of the panic, the fear that this would all end absolutely horribly. On the shiny screen, every single minute of pain and fatigue he had endured that night was suddenly clear as daylight on Bruce’s face. Jason had never seen him so beaten, so old, so vulnerable.

“My sons… You were all so much stronger than I had ever believed. Please do look after each other. You _are_ family and I am proud of all of you. Goodbye.”

The video ended as abruptly as it had started, leaving the five of them looking once more at a blank screen. In his stomach, Jason felt the familiar, cold sting of abandonment pierce through his gut, a fresh pain that sprawled throughout his entire body. All the cards were on the table now. This was the end. One of them had to make the first move. He just prayed it would not have to be him.

“Well, at least he did finally say ‘thank you’ and ‘well done’ for a change,” the replacement muttered only for Barbara to jab him hard in the ribs.

“He was always proud of you boys. He was always grateful to have you. He used to tell Alfred and me all the time.”

“Well, that’s nice of him to tell the two of you, but I hate that it took putting him in his grave to get him to tell it to _us_.” Dick had hit the nail on the head. Jason couldn’t quite believe it. Given how Bruce had always been talking about Dick, he had always believed that he was the only one who never got any appreciation for his work. Knowing that both his predecessor and his successor had gone through the same thing felt both comforting and infuriating at the same time. What had made Bruce so incapable of praising people directly, instead of shilling them to someone else behind their backs?

“There are dozens of young men out there who could have worn the red suit,” Lucius added, “but he chose the three of you. Mr. Wayne only worked with the best of the best. I suppose he always assumed that that was obvious and good enough as praise.”

Jason bristled. Did that mean that every time Bruce had handed one of his designs over to Lucius to include in the prototype database without a single word, _that_ in and of itself had been the praise? Next to Barbara, the repla—Tim face-palmed in exasperation. “World’s Greatest Detective with an F in developmental psychology.”

“Maybe siccing us on each other was his way of acknowledging that.” Dick’s lips curved into a mischievous grin. “God, this feels like being back on patrol again. Bruce kicking ass with our help and then moving on without a word…”

“… and us having to stay behind and clean up the mess, looking like a bunch of second-rate sidekicks, waiting for the cavalry to roll in.” Tim concluded. Perhaps the guy was not a total loss after all. Jason tried to think back to his time on patrol with Bruce, but every bit of it hurt. He wondered how either one of his brothers could still be able to look back on those times without feeling the same pain, but the answer was obvious. Dick had had time to grow out of the red suit on his own terms. Tim was still going through it and the shock had probably not yet registered properly in his allegedly genius brain. But Jason… Jason had been ripped from suit, put through a grinder and left in the dirt to die. He had been forced to grow up faster than anyone should. The only good news was he now had all the time in the world to catch up. And he knew what needed to be done.

“Well, I’m not waiting anymore.” He was sick and tired of waiting. He was sick and tired of life tearing him this way and that way and chipping away at him until there was nothing left. Thankfully, Barb had not asked him to surrender his grapnel gun before entering the building. With a quick sigh, Jason snatched Dick’s Cognac, downed the entire glass, got up and marched off onto the balcony. Dick was right behind him, quick, panicked steps, followed by Barb, Tim and Lucius.

“Jason, wait!”

“Don’t bother, Dick.” The harsh wind that greeted him on the balcony stung sharply against the J on his cheek. He really needed to retrieve his helmet. From the looks on everybody’s faces, the pain and exhaustion were evident in his eyes. _They probably think I’m just going to jump_ , Jason thought sourly. The idea held a certain appeal, but he knew he would not be able to do it. He had spent too many nights with one of his guns in his mouth already. He had already dealt too much pain, too much grief to the people who actually cared for him. To his family. “I’ve had enough of an emotional beatdown for one day and I’m really not in the mood for a sappy debriefing.”

Dick’s hand was on his wrist in a second. The grip was both relentless and yet infinitely gentle. His bright eyes were pale with worry. “Just tell me one thing, Jason: If I let go now, will any of us ever see you again?”

The question stung worse than the bullet to the chest. The traumatized boy inside of him wanted nothing more than to run, to flee, but he had already learned where that would lead him. He was tired of running. He had a choice between a certainty of failure and misery, and a chance of trust and hope. “That depends. Hey Barb…” He watched her roll up to the edge of the balcony, every muscle in her body tensed to the max. “Is that apartment offer still standing?”

She blinked at him once, then twice. Like a deer in the headlights. Once upon a time, he would have laughed. As it was, all he could do was hope that the Arkham Knight had truly been wrong and the Dark Knight had truly been right. That he would always be family and that, as long as he was family, there would always be chance of warmth, hope and trust.

“I can have your keys ready for collection by Friday night.”

The relief that flooded him was beyond anything Jason had ever imagined. It felt like being back in the rain after finally escaping that horrible cell in Arkham, soft warmth washing off the pain and the fear and the cold. Deep inside, he knew it was only the beginning. A tiny victory. He knew it would not be enough to get rid of the nightmares, the doubt and the despair. He knew that there were scars and damage that would never fully heal and that he would never be the same Jason Peter Todd again. But it was a start. It was progress. “Friday night at the Clock Tower then.”

Around his wrist, Dick’s fingers slowly released their iron grip. Jason aimed his grapnel gun at the nearest building and jumped. As the familiar, exhilarating feeling of almost flying crawled into every last corner of his body, his lips curved into a smile. He understood now. Hope and trust were like grappling off a balcony thirty floors above the ground. It would always be terrifying and painful at first, but with the right tools and the right approach, he could turn it into the most amazing feeling ever. He had been stuck in the fear and the pain and the thousand what-ifs, never looking at the potential for good things to follow. But now he knew.

Hope was a wonderful thing. And hope was the spread wings of a bat, whether black or red, shining on the clouds.


End file.
